No Man's Storm
by Nemris
Summary: The Eye of Terror is not what it used to be, but it is not the only major Warpstorm in the galaxy. Sequal to Raven's Feast. Set in the Zahariel's Roboutian Heresy alternate universe.
1. Chapter 1

**Inspired by Zahariel's awesome work, _Roboutian Heresy._ But you guys knew that.**

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 **No Man's Storm**

 **Chapter 1**

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 _"Chaos was the law of nature; Order was the dream of man."_

― Henry Adams

The world below was not beautiful to look at. Few daemon worlds were, though there were exceptions of course. The enormous orb bathed by the unnatural lights of the Eye was the color of rust, completely without bodies of water or visible vegetation. The planet's two pale white moons circled too closely to the planet, close enough that it was possible to travel between them with purely atmospheric crafts. Multiple ships and orbital emplacements surrounded the planet, clustered around a medium size starfort looming over the world.

The world's name was Crucible, and it was one of the many worlds dedicated to the purpose of producing mortal soldiers for the armies of the Crimson Lords warband of the VIIth Legion. A harsh world that weeded out the weak, ensuring that only the strong emerged to fill the ranks of the Blood Korps. It held on its surface the all necessary breeding centers, training facilities and drill battlefields for creating fresh regiments of recruits in near endless supply for the warmachine of the Fists, armies of disciplined, trialed and refined from birth humans better trained and equipped than some Imperial Guard regiments of the Corpse Emperor's realm. The planet needed regular fresh supply of pure genetic human stock from beyond the Eye to counter the mutating effects of the Eyespace, ensuring that the quality of the troops produced did not degenerate over the long years.

The fleet orbiting the world was however the most impressive aspect of the system. There were ships from several different Legions, though some Legions had no representation at all, as well as ships with no clear allegiance or Astartes bloodline heraldry, and many ships commanded by only mortals.

Eclipsing most others with its enormous size, the Victory-class battleship next to the starfort drifted calmly in the void, its silent but massive guns radiating contained power that ensured the order among all that had gathered under the watchful eye of its armaments. It had once sailed under the banner of the aquila with a different name in the years after the great betrayal, but now it bore new allegiance and a new name: Blood Reaver. A clenched crimson fist decorated its massive and heavily armored prow as a indication of its new master.

Gathered around the massive behemoth of war, separated from the lesser ships with respectful distance, there was a circle of large ships that did not pale much in comparison to the battleship. There were four of them, each of them a mighty construct of war and conquest worthy of leading their own fleets. They formed the heart of the armada that was gathering into the system, the core around which the others vessels added their strength.

The smallest of them, by comparison, was an Hades-class heavy cruiser in the colors symbols of the XVIIIth legion, the head of its green platted hull decorated by a brass sigil depicting a draconian head. It was called the Incinerator, and it was commanded by Du'rhan of the World Burners.

Next to the ship of the Salamanders was a black battle barge dating back to the days of the Heresy, a massive Astartes warship that was designed for planetary assault. Its weapon bristling hull showed the glorious symbol of the mighty Raven Lord, the white Raven against the blackest of black. It was the Dark Harbinger of the Onyx Sons. Savardin's ship.

The last two ships were both painted in the bright yellow of the VIIth Legion. One of them was called the Red Crusader, a rare Retaliator-class grand cruiser almost the same size as the Raven Guard ship next to it. The other was a strike cruiser Storm of Wrath, the traditional and mighty Astartes vessel seeming rather small when compared to some of the vessels alongside it. Both of the ships, as well as the battleship beside them, belonged to the warband of the Crimson Lords, which was an extremely impressive show of might.

The Crimson Lords were a large warband, maybe even one or the largest of their Legion, comprising of over two hundred of the sons of Dorn, as well as some adopted sons from loyalist bloodlines, which was an unusually high number of Astartes for a VIIth Legion warband. The Crimson Lords laid claim to an exceptionally powerful domain within the Empire of the Eye, lording over multiple system that were dedicated to producing mortal armies for the wars in the name of their bloody God, as well as Dark Mechanicus allies that allowed them to supply and arm their warhosts. A considerable portion of the ships around Crucible bore the yellow and sailed under the symbol of the red fist, and on the surface of the planet there were millions of mortals ready to rally to their master's cause when called.

It was the master of this warband, of this world, of this region of the Eye, that Rukiel Varkhian had come to meet with.

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The yellow clad Terminators escorted Rukiel to a door that opened to allow him in, the Fists warriors remaining behind to wait outside. The door fell closed behind him, and he carefully treaded deeper into the chamber. In his hand he carried a long power spear, casually resting it against his shoulder guard next to the white symbol of a raven.

There were trophy racks and pedestal of many sizes and shapes scattered around the room, some hiding in the shadowed edges of the room, some occupying very central positions of the floor. There were weapons, alien body parts and pieces of armor of all kinds, sporting numerous heraldries of all stripes. Some of them were coated in blood, as if they had been claimed from vanquished foes very recently, the choice of not cleaning the trophies adding to their rather impressive ambiance. The walls were framed with many banners depicting clenched fists, Legion numbers and symbols of the Blood aspect of the Primordial Annihilator.

The largest wall of the room was dominated by a huge digital view screen depicting the map of the galaxy, corners of the screen dripping small trails of blood that Rukiel found very symbolic. There were a few focused points of interest on the map brought out by variety of colors and tactical markers, but the view of the galaxy was too unfocused for any real relevant information, most of the markings just some very general data of not particular value that faded in and out from the screen.

There was a power armored Legionnaire champion standing on the edge of the room, clad in the heraldry of the Fists. A lieutenant to the master of this battleship most likely. He was the only other occupant of the room save for Rukiel himself, and the lord of the Crimson Lords.

In the almost center of the room, raised on a dias overwatching the galactic map, was large iron throne decorated by hundreds of bones, with skulls of various kinds hanging from chains falling from the ceiling around it. Rukiel walked to stand a respectable and safe distance from the throne, and laid his eyes upon the Astartes sitting on it.

The figure on the throne was massive, even when taking into account his ornate yellow and black Terminator armor that had possibly grown around its wearer to accommodate his massive bulk. The favour and the power of the Warp had mutated him to grow far larger and stronger than most other Legionnaires in the galaxy. The Astartes lord would have loomed easily over the Terminators that had escorted Rukiel here, in a similar way a Terminator loomed over a regular power armor Legionnaire. He could have passed for a small primarch.

There was a large two handed sword of dark material resting against his foot on the throne, fitting the stature of its master, and one of the crimson colored gauntlets was resting upon the pommel of the weapon.

He had an aura of power and glory around him, a presence of might that was hanging like a cloak over a champion of a thousand Warp coiled around him, marking him as its favoured and chosen warrior. The might of the Blood God was strong in his soul as well as his body.

He was the kind of warrior that upon meeting made Rukial think that this was a warrior with a God behind him. The Black Dragon's sons might receive unique unholy benefits as their master dwelled in the unknown aspects and paths of the Great Ocean, and Rukiel's own Legion was connected deeper to the Power of Ruin like no other through the might of their great father. But this here was power of completely different kind. This was a being that was blessed and supported by a God, and it was clear to all who gazed upon him. Rukiel could not help being impressed. There were many lords in the Eye, but there were lord and then there were Lords.

The master of the of the Crimson Lords was unhelmeted, and his shaven head showed many faint battle scars gathered in the wars of the Long War. His blue eyes looked right at Rukiel with a gaze that was as implacable as adamantium and as cold as the void of space.

"Lord Kalron," Rukiel greeted, his words accompanied by a respectful nod that was all he was going to give to the warlord, no matter the might the warrior possessed. He bowed to no being, save for the Ravenlord himself. At least as long as his life was not on the line.

Kalron observed Rukiel, tilting his head slightly as his eyes took in all of the warrior standing before him. "So you are Varkhian of the Obsidian Talons?" Kalron spoke with a voice that was like an contained avalanche waiting to be unleashed. "Savardin speaks very highly of you, which is unusual for him."

"Savardin is a good judge of character," Rukiel said with a faint smile. "He is the reason why I am standing before you now. He is the only other lord of my Legion that I could say I almost trust, and I dare to say he thinks same of me."

"Indeed," Kalron rumbled, his eyes seemingly lacking the capability to blink. His icy blue eyes just continued staring at Rukiel without pause, never releasing him from their observation. "That is the reason why he has vouched for you and invited you to join my crusade host, is it not? Well, partly at least. I understand you and him made a deal of some sort, something in which I have a part ?"

Rukiel's face adopted an unreadable expression. "There is a certain relic," he said. "I have made a pact with brother Savardin. He says you will provide me with a ship in exchange for it."

"So I understood the matter," Kalron said. "And in exchange for the ship, you will offer me geneseed of the XIIth Legion you are in possession of, as well as your service for my crusade host."

"That is the agreement," Rukiel confirmed. "It surprised me, really. You offering a strike cruiser in exchange for a relic for you ally. That is extremely generous of you."

It was not as generous as it sounded. Rukiel had seen the ship. It was a battered and battle-torn ship stolen from the Iron Warriors guarding the Cage, and it was missing a fifth of its mass in the form of a blown away broadside. Even now it laid in anchor over the planet, under extensive repairs to make it functional enough for the minimum requirements of its intended purposes. It was not cut out for void engagements for a long time, but a strike cruiser was a strike cruiser. Proper Legion ships like that were not in excess in the Eye, and many warbands would have offered a lot for one, even in such a condition.

"Savardin has been a valuable ally for me for a long time, and during all these years I have come well acquainted with what XIXth Legion can offer. I have high hopes for you, Varkhian. Do not disappoint me." Kalron glanced away, finally breaking the eye contact and looking at the large map on the viewscreen behind Rukiel. "I have waged many wars after the Siege, and I have learned to value good allies in the Eye. I have fought alongside every Legion heraldry there is during the long years, but Savardin of the Onyx Sons and Du'rhan of the World Burners are the only two that have sticked with me through all this time. If Savardin says you are a valuable ally, I am inclined to believe him."

Rukiel nodded. What Kalron said sounded very unusual coming from a Crimson Fist, who were famously a paranoid bloodline with not the best track record when it comes to handling their allies. The warlord in front of him was different from all the other Fists Rukiel had encountered before. Raven Guard were not very popular allies in the Eyespace (for a good reason), so it was strange to meet someone who was willing to trust a son of rhe Ravenlord rather than just follow the whispers of their patron to strike down the sons of Corax. Rukiel was now starting to see some of what Savarding saw in Kalron. Opportunities of alliances were scarce enough in the Eye for the warbands of the Raven Guard, so it was no wonder that Sevardin took care to maintain one to such a powerful lord as Kalron.

"Savardin seems to have encountered much more success than you though," Kalron continued. "He commands a battle barge and a strong warband. You have a light cruiser with very few Purebloods under your command."

Rukiel felt a ting of irritation at the mention of Raptor's Shroud and the condition of Obsidian Talons. Sure, he could replenish the Spawns endlessly without much cost, which was the sole reason he still had anything worthy of being called a warband, but Kalron, as someone who had worked closely with Savardin for a long time, clearly was well aware how realities were for a lord of the XIXth Legion. The Spawns were in endless supply, but their equipment and means to carry end deploy them onto battlefields were another thing. Raptor's Shroud carried only so many Spawns, and Rukiel did not have the means of arming them with much.

"How are you acquainted with Savardin anyway, I am curious? It seems to me you two go a long way back," Kalron continued.

"We fought together during the Heresy," Rukiel replied with a faint shrug. "And we fought against one another once or twice on the Legion's homeworld during the long years once I took the command of the Obsidian Talons. And then we reconciled and fought together against our brother Arkhas Fal for a while before the three of us went our separate ways. The two of us have been keeping in contact after that and dealt together with other internal matters of our Legion."

"I see," Kalron said as he adjusted his position on his grand throne.

"That is a quite a armada you have gathered in this system," Rukiel said, glancing around to chamber to see if there were any viewports offering a view to outside the ship, but there were none. "I see I am not the only one you have summoned here. White Scars, Space Wolves, Salamanders, Iron Hands...Even the Black Legion." Rukiel said with a faint hiss in his voice.

"Seventeen warbands have already pledged themselves to my crusade host. You are the Eighteenth," Kalron said.

Damn, so close. "No Blood Angels though, as far as I saw it?" Rukile mused.

"I have fought besides even Blood Angels before, but we have never parted in conciliatory terms," Kalron grunted dismissively. "And ever since I had to defend my worlds against 200 sons of Sanguinius, the XIth Legion has stayed far away from me."

"200 Blood Angel Astartes?" Rukiel mused with some mild disbelief. "Blood Angel warbands do not come in those numbers."

"That is what I thought too when they started raiding my territory," Kalron continued. "Then I found it was not a single warband, but seven different one, lead by champions who were all competing against each other who could claim my head for the Dark Prince."

Rukiel let out a small chuckle. Now that sounded more like Blood Angels. "What happened to them?"

"They were divided, got ineach other's way, and their mortal slaves were no match for my Blood Korps. I slew the leaders of three of their warbands myself, I know one was killed by another of his bloodline, and two escaped. I have no idea what happened to the last one." Kalron said, motioning to three skulls hanging from the same chain above him.

"Your Blood Korps seem quite useful," Rukiel said rather dismissively. He had never really seen the value of mortal armies, since he had an endless source of Spawn Marines at his disposal. Mutated clones or not, they were still transhumans and far superior than mere mortal cannon fodder. Basic humans were easily broken, lacked in every imaginable category, and died easily, whereas Spawn Marines were versatile, had an acceptable quality and cost balance, and endured better and longer conditions that would render mortal filth useless. But Rukiel could see why some lesser Legions not blessed with the genius of Corax found value in mere human slave armies.

"Wars have always been won by the blood and sweat of well forged armies," Kalron said with a firm tone. "For millennia since our species crawled out of their caves, it has always been strong warriors made of regular men that have dictated the course of history. If not for the Heresy, we would still be fighting the Great Crusade after all these years to claim the stars if not for the mortal armies under our rule. We would have succeeded eventually of course, but no true warlord is blind enough not to see the place of our slaves. We Astartes are the mightiest warriors the galaxy has ever known, but we are not the only warriors that matter. The immutable reality of all our history is that numbers win wars. And that is the one quality mortals do not lack."

"Mortals have their uses," Rukiel replied like a god talking about ants.

"There are always lords who delude themselves into a search of some magical artefact or super weapon that they hope will help them win the galaxy. There are those who believe the power of the Warp and learning to use it will grant them the ways of their triumph over all others. Those who believe they can do better job than the Corpse Emperor when he created us, who believe they can create better super warriors than the False Master of Mankind to conquer the universe..."

Rukiel felt a slight sting in his mind at the mention of the last one.

"The False Emperor did not conquer the galaxy or even Terra with his might over the Warp or some mythical secret or a relic of the past. He did create the ancient Thunder Warriors and then the Legiones Astartes, but he only enhanced what was already present in humanity, and despite everything, there will be no one who will ever eclipse His work. He conquered the stars, and he did it with iron willed and iron armed warriors, like you, me, and countless mortal slaves. He did it with humanity he had leashed under his will."

"I dare to bet his knowledge of the Warp and secrets that I cannot even fathom did not exactly hurt His rise either," Rukiel said with a slight smile, but did not continue further. He was not going to argue with the Fist warlord over anything like this.

"So until the day the mortals cease to be a vital part of warfare, till the day when they stop winning me victories, until that day I will keep raising armies of them and waging war in the name of the Lord on the Skull Throne," Kalron said with a cruel smile.

A day like that may come, Rukiel thought to himself. War was eternal, Chaos was eternal, but Mankind was not. At least in its current form. "So you have a lot of mortals under your command and all these small warbands bring you a quite large Astartes force as well," Rukiel continued.

"Savardin and you add yours Spawnkin into the crusade, and Du'rhan brings his warmachines and daemon engines, as well as provides other additions to our armories from the forges of the Salamanders," Kalron said with a powerful voice. He had a strong force to be reckoned with under his command and he knew it.

"You have gathered a lot of allies," Rukiel remarked.

"Success draws allies to you," Kalron replied. "I have always thought that all war should be for even greater war. Every victory should add to your capacity to wage war." The warlord glanced away with far looking eyes. "I had only my strike cruiser and what was left of my company when the Destroyer shattered our Legion. Now you are standing onboard my battleship, surrounded by my fleet and warbands pledged to me, surrounded by my realm in the Eye."

"You certainly have had more success than many of your brothers."

"And I intent to have more success in the future as well," Kalron said as he returned his blue eyes to look at Rukiel. "When the end of the Imperium dawns, when we once again tread on the surface of Terra, when we once again fight on the walls of the Imperial Palace, I intent to stand as a someone who did not waste the years of the Long War. I intent to return with more than what I left the Throneworld with, when my Primarch once more leads my Legion to war."

"The Lord of the VIIth has not very active in leading his Legion for a long while as far as I know," Rukiel said, trying to not to think about his own father in hateful isolation upon the tallest of the dark spires.

Kalron regarded Rukiel with his blue eyes. "Our fathers may not have ventured outside to wage war against the Corpse Emperor's realm many times during the long years, but make no mistake, when the time comes, they will call upon their sons to make war against the Imperium like never before."

Kalron took a short pause. "Have you heard of the world of Armageddon?"

"Armageddon?" Rukiel asked, going through his memory for a planet of that name. "I can't say I have heard the name. What of it."

"I am not surprised if you have not heard of it. The War for Armageddon happened relatively recently, at least for me. It is hard to keep a track of things in the Eye as you know," Kalron said, taking a deep breath and looking into nothingness again.

"I was on Armageddon," the Astartes on the throne said with a dreamy voice. "I was there when Grimnar of the Space Wolves came up with his plan to sacrifice the cities of Armageddon to summon my Primarch from beyond the veil. And it worked. The great lord of my Legion was summoned upon the plains of Armageddon, and we of his sons rallied to him… It was glorious."

Kalron still looked away, clearly going through the memories of the events in his mind. "I will never forget the day lord Dorn lead us into battle on that world for the glory of the Blood God. There was no battle plans, no chain of command, but when the master of the VIIth called, his sons answered. There were thousands of us, thousands of Crimson Fists taking up weapons to spill blood of the imperium alongside our lord. Some were there when he was summoned, and more arrived when they heard his call. The world burned with our wrath, the Warp storming around us to witness our war, our enemies crushed under our might and their skulls claimed for the great Throne…" Kalron returned his gaze to Rukiel. "I wage my wars to be part of that again one day."

"And this crusade host you have gathered is for that goal as well?" Rukiel asked. "You have something in the works that will increase your might even further. I am here to lend myself to your cause, so share your plans."

Kalron smiled and motioned towards the map of the galaxy behind Rukiel. "It is not as it used to be in the empire of the Eye. Millennia ago, there was just us of the eighth Legions, in our exile from the empire that betrayed us. It is not the same Eye that we entered in. The power of the Primogenitor and his lot has grown over the millennia, and now we share a Iron Cage with a new power calling itself a Legion."

Rukiel felt his anger rise a bit at the mention of the Legion without a number. "The Black Legion is nothing but a ragtag group of desperate turncoats and deluded servants of Bile, held together by nothing. The Black Legion is not a Legion despite its name, it was not here at the beginning of the Long War and it has no Primarch. It even worse than the Ultramarines, who are a failed Legion that has lost its Primarch and should have died with him."

"Believe what you want to believe, but you have to face what is the situation in the Eye," Kalron said, clearly not anymore pleased about what they were discussing than Rukiel. "The truth of the matter is that the Black Legion has grown more than rival us of the true Legions." Kalron looked downwards, a tired expression on his face. "They have many things that are lost to us, sometimes I wonder how we could have let things end up the way they are now..."

Kalron raised his gaze to look at the Eye of Terror marked on the galactic map. "There are three great Warp storms in this galaxy, three kingdoms of sanctuary for us followers of the Gods, two of them caged by the Lord of Iron in an age long past. And in such realms, there is always a dominant force. In the Ruinstorm, it is and has always been the Ultramarines. Today, that dominant force in the Eye of Terror is the Black Legion."

Rukiel looked at the great warp rifts of the galaxy displayed on the map before him. "And in the third storm?" he asked as his eyes were drawn near the center of the map.

Kalron's smile could be heard in his voice. "Work in progress…"

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 **So yeah. I am utterly incapable of not thinking about continuation for my stuff, so here it is: Sequal to Ravan's Feast, and the return of Rukiel Varkhian. Hopefully there is at least one guy out there somewhere who looked forward to seeing him again.**

 **This story will probably be a bit longer than its prequal, I don't have as a solid plant for this as I did for Raven's Feast. So that** **means if you'd like** , **you can make suggestions of what you would like to see, and I will think about it. Do take into account that this story will be taking inside a Warpstorm, so that might slightly limit what can happen.**

 **I have one chapter of Chaos is the Prize halfway ready, so that will probably come out next, but after that the story will be on a hiatus until I get done with this one.**

 **I hope you liked this chapter and I will see you next time.**


	2. Chapter 2

**No Man's Storm**

 **Chapter 2**

 _ **"I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity."**_

 _ **-Edgar Allan Poe**_

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The ship felt strange to him. It had only recently been taken from the Iron Warriors and entered the Eye, so it felt somehow out of place in the realm where everything was under the constant influence of the Gods. The ship was ancient, probably built many millennia ago in the years of the Materium, but it almost felt fresh out of shipyards when compared to _Raven's Shroud_. Well, technically it was since it had needed such massive repairs. It felt weirdly sterile, clean, like a spot of white in the darkness. It would not stay like that for long, he was sure of it. Nothing remained unchanged once it entered the Eye.

Skaron stood on the edge of the new strike cruiser of the Obsidian Talons, staring out of the oculus ports while standing on top of the many observation balconies. The bridge of the _Raven's Shroud_ was nothing compared to the head sanctum of the true Astartes vessel. The huge space was like a cathedral, filled with hundreds if not thousands of mortal slaves and servitors attending to countless data ports, command relay nodes, logiengine stations and information hubs.

Lord Varkhian had renamed the ship as _Ars Moriendi_ when he took command of it, casting away all its previous links to the sentinels of the Iron Cages. All Imperial and IVth legion icons and heraldry had been systematically cast down, so that they might be replaced with the symbols of the Ravenlord's Legion and the Primordial Annihilator. Skaron could already smell the chance in the air, could sense the change that was creeping in the dark corners of the ship's corridors, slowly but surely infusing the power of the Warp into the iron bones of the vessel.

Outside the massive view ports of the bridge was a world against the violent storm of the Eyespace. A dark, unnatural, nameless world, home to unfathomable horrors and monsters, and those who ruled over them. Impossibly high spires could be seen rising from the surface through the clouded atmosphere into the high orbit, where many black ships of the XIXth Legion remained anchored to them, just like _Ars Moriendi._

The new ship was docked into the spire belonging to warband of the Obsidian Talons and its master, and from the spire countless resources of war were brought onboard. The large chambers of the ship, much larger than those of the _Raven's Shroud,_ were filled with Spawn Marines as fast as they could be harvested from the surface of the planet. Warmachines and weapons from the armories of the Obsidian Talons, as well as from another dead warband. The spire of the _Dark Blood_ had been raided and emptied by the Lord Varkhian's scions, its halls, vaults and armories emptied of its guardians, Spawn Marines, Primes and other things that Skaron did not want to find out. The Spire was gone now. It had collapsed into nothingness and devoured by the world, like it had never existed, while the spire of the Obsidian Talon grew much taller.

Skaron had never set his foot on the world, and he had no wish to do so. He had only visited the very top docking areas of the spire, and that had been enough for him. He and his squad was not allowed to the planet itself, which did not bother him at all. Even remaining in the orbit of the world, even looking at it made him feel… _something_ … Something that he really did not like feeling.

Skaron was not a son of the XIXth Primarch. The blood that flowed through his veins and his squad's was not the same as his Lord's. No, he had been bred from the stock of the XIIth legion.

Lord Varkhian had somehow come to the possession of considerable bounty of the XIIth Legion geneseed, most of which the honored lord had gifted to the Crimson Lords of the Fists. Most of.

The Obsidian Talons had been severely lacking in true Astartes, and so the honored lord had seen wise to elevate a single squad from the stock he was in the possession of to remedy that lack. Ten warriors of the foul imperial origin to serve the honored lord. And Skaron was their leader, their "Prime". They served under the Purebloods of the warband, doing whatever task the honored lord decided for them, be it guiding the lesser clones or going after important objectives. Squad Skaron had been vital for the continued operations of the Obsidian Talons in the time before their new ship, when the warband's lack of Purebloods had been weighing down on them. The Spawn Primes were unreliable sometimes, so it helped having some true Astartes provide guidance over the warband. Now there was even more spawns under the command of the honored lord, and Skaron was determined that his services would be even more valuable than before.

But squad Skaron… was not what it used to be. In many ways. Four warriors stood beside Skaron, clad in the same black and white armor as him. They were the surviving members his squad, for the rest had been lost in the wars of the Obsidian Talons. But… But… For some reason Skaron could not understand… For some reason… he did not know which ones…

The squad had originally possessed ten members: Vel-II, Kar-III, Goran-IV, Sepetan-V, Haron-VI, Tyron-VII, Delvos-VIII, Oirak-IX, Loraknik-X and of course Skaron Prime himself. Five of them were dead. But Skaron did not know who, for they all kept talking to him still...

His Armor's systems were not able to recognize the names of the battle brothers behind him, showing five members but not their identity. When they communicated, the voices belonged to all members of the squad.

Sometimes it was Sepatan talking, sometimes it was Oirak, and sometimes someone else, but no one was missing. They talked like there was still ten of them, the vox channel of the squad filled with each ot their voices talking battle cant during war. Delvos was calling out targets, Haron told he was out of ammo, Vel saying his armor's integrity is down to half, Loranik warning of incoming enemy fire. Skaron could call out any of them and issue an order, no matter who, and always the warrior in question would acknowledge him, and one of the four moved to comply.

Skaron did not know what was going on, and it had quickly dawned to him, that either something was very wrong with his squad, or something was very wrong with him. He wondered if his sanity was leaving him, taken away by the tides of the Warp. He could no longer look at his brothers that well, he simply was not somehow able to, not able focus on them directly, unable to spot details that would give the identity of the warrior away. His eyes simply could not see them except very vaguely, no matter what he did. They rarely removed their helmets, and he had not seen any of their faces since the first of them fell. No one, of the five of them or anyone around them seemed to recognize anything was odd or wrong, the Purebloods and the mortals seeing nothing strange in them.

Skaron had tried to use mortal slaves to figure out who the warriors of his squad were, but the slaves were not able to tell him, every attempt resulting in failure, often in the form of the slave expiring beyond use in some way. Some of them died in variety of ways before he could get an answer, most of them simply totally lost their sanity. He had not dared to talk to the Purebloods about this, for the fear they might see him or his squad damaged and get rid of them.

And so he was left with no answers, no idea of who he was leading, and no idea if he was losing his mind.

"Skaron," came a voice through a priority vox channel, and Skaron immediately turned around and fell to one knee.

"My lord?" Skaron said, looking across the massive bridge.

Honored lord Varkhian was sitting on top of the central command dais, resting upon a large captain's throne, which granted him a wide view of his servants and the oculus ports of the walls. On the dais, half circled around the throne of their master, were the Mortet Guard. Lead by the winged spawn Kiarona, they were the honor guard of lord Varkhian, numbering 14, consisting of the best Primes that had reached honored lord's spire on their on. They wore proper power armor and carried bolters and chain weapons, so they paled in comparison to many guards of other Lords of the Eye, but they served their purpose.

Skaron's eyes drifted for a second to the Prime Commander Kiarona, who stood immobile just behind Rukiel, his dark raven wings sprouting from the back of his custom modified power armor. The Rpime held a long chain spear in his hands, a specially made weapon gifted by the honored lord, similar in aspect to Varkhian's own power spear.

Skaron dreamed of one day holding that chain spear himself, as the commander of the Mortet Guard of his lord. No matter that he carried the foul blood of the World Eaters in his veins, he was still a true Astartes, unlike the Spawn Marine Prime.

"You see the Legion's flagship?" Lord Varkhian spoke softly through the vox channel, motioning with his hand towards the main viewport at the head of the bridge.

Skaron stood and turned, looking out into the cold void. He could see what the honored lord spoke of.

There was a spire sprouting from the surface of the dark plant. _The Spire_. It rose higher than any of the lesser spires imitating it, much larger in every dimension and much mightier. Skaron's eyes played optical illusions on him as he looked at it. On top of it, attached to the peak of the spire, was a gigantic shape of a ship, still somehow managing to be almost overshadowed by the mighty structure it was docked into. From this distance Skaron could not quite make out where the ship ended and where the spire started, and he had no wish for a closer look.

"I see it, my lord," Skaron said as he glanced at at his lord. It was good to turn his eyes away from the spire.

"It is the _Emperor's Shadow_ ," Lord Varkhian said. "The Gloriana-class ship that served the Ravenlord himself during the great Heresy."

Skaron, turned to look out of the oculus again, unsure why the honored lords was telling him this.

"Does the name not wake any thought's in you?" Lord Varkhian said with a smooth tone. "Do you not see the delicious irony?"

"Forvive me, lord. I am afraid what you mean is eluding me," Skaron replied with some shame.

"Do you not know?" Lord Varkhian said with mirth. "The Emperor is a radiant, illuminating being and thus does not cast a shadow," he laughed.

* * *

"How many?" Rukiel asked as he stood on the edge of a large shuttle balcony sprouting from the wall of the spire, glancing over the ledge into the dark depths. He could not see the harvesting crafts working down below, but he could sense them as they did their work of reaping the Spawn Marines from the dark wasteland.

"Over 3000 by the latest calculations, probably more now," Savardin estimated, glancing over his shoulder at his second in command.

"3112 said the last report," Polryphon answered to his lord, but the exact numbers of the Spawn Marines were usually of no interest to their lords. All that mattered was that there was enough of them.

Five Raven Guard Purebloods stood on top of the spire, Rukiel and Kerverax of the Obsidian Talons, Savardin, Polryphon and Voraks of the Onyx Sons, who owned the spire. Rukiel's Storm Bird stood on the center of the platform, Mortet Guard keeping a respectful distance by the aircraft.

"And we have maybe a bit over 800. Not much more we can maintain onboard _Ars Moriendi_ ," Kerverax noted. "Not before we can rebuild more of the inner structure of the ship."

"Which will have to wait until the end of the crusade," Rukiel said. The Strike Cruiser was in as good of a condition as it was going to get with such a short notice. Truly massive repairs would come when they had the shipyards and the resources within the Maelstorm.

"Those numbers are sufficient, we should ready ourselves for departure," Savardin said. "We should not remain within the Eye for too long, less the distortion of time between us and the rest of the Crusade Host grows too great. Voraks, see to the preparations, we leave within the solar day. The Maelstorm calls."

"As you wish, lord" Voraks said and turned, starting to make his way towards the spire.

The crusade host of Lord Kalron had splintered across the Eye, each warband trying to find their own way out of the Eyespace and then slip past the net of the Iron Cage. It would have been very hard for the entire host to exit the warpstorm together. Trying to slip through the only truly stable route, the Cadian Gate, would have been suicide, and elsewhere a large crusade host would have taken unnecessary large risks. Large fleets were in danger of being scattered or even entire ships being lost when exiting together the unpredictable and dangerous tides of the half reality into the real space, and the ever watchful Imperial psykers of the Iron Cage were able to foresee large incursions with dangerous precisions. The Iron Warriors had become truly efficient watchdogs of the Corpse Emperor's realm in the long Millenia, and running into them before being able to slip into Warp travel had been the end for countless warbands over the years.

This was one of the great strategic advantages the Maelstorm possessed over the Great Eye and the Ruinstorm. There was no Iron Cage around it, only lesser forces tasked with guarding the region of space. The Cages built by the Lord of Iron during the dawn of the age of Imperium could not be build around the Maelstorm, the dying Imperium simply did not have the resources to spare. If one was able to establish a strongholds and base of operations in the Maelstorm, there would be significant opportunities to prosecute the Long War into the Imperial Space.

"I am surprised you would lend your support for this kind of endeavour," Rukiel said to Savardin.

"Oh?" the other Chaos Lord said, turning his ornate helmet to look at Rukiel with crimson eye lenses.

"Even if we establish a realm for an ally in the Maelstrom, it will not benefit us that much because we can only rebuild our armies here on the Ravenlord's planet," Rukiel continued.

"You have prosecuted the Long War on your own for too long," Savardin said with a musing tone. "There is so much more you can do with good allies."

"And Kalron is a good ally? He won't just cast us aside after his banner rises in the Maelstorm or throw us to die in his stead?"

"Kalron keeps his promises... Most of the time at least, and he has never betrayed me in all these years. Having someone like him as your ally is very beneficial. If we succeed in this, you will always have refuge in the Maelstorm, allies who will have your back against your rivals. _If_ you prove yourself worthy to the Crimson Lords."

Savardin lifted his power hammer that he had been leaning against and rested it against his shoulder guard. "The Mealstorm is a strategic zone in the galaxy like no other, as it is a realm safe from Imperial vengeance without the confining of the Iron Cages. It will be useful beyond measure when the time comes to finally usher the Imperium into oblivion. But we are not the only ones who realize that."

Rukiel nodded. The Black Legion was quite content with its dominance of the greatest warpstorm of in the galaxy, one that it would never control enough to end fighting inside of it. That was why some eyes had started looking outwards toward the center of the galaxy. But there were similar eyes on the other side of the Mealstorm as well.

"Warbands of the Ultramarines have displayed great interest in the Maelstorm region recently. We should assume those bastards already have a considerable presence inside the storm," Savardin said. "Presence that we will not tolerate. The cursed banner of the Ultima will never rise prominent in the Mealstorm."

Rukiel smiled. He had never had a chance to repay the XIIIth Legion for losing the Siege for the rebels. He would enjoy the chance of doing so. "I look forward to meeting our cousins again," he said as he turned towards his Storm Bird. Maybe the Ultramarines would have a Strike Cruiser that could be salvaged for material for his own ship.

"I will see you at the rendezvous point in the Endymion Cluster," Rukiel said to Savardin as he took a step towards his gunship. He however stopped as something that had been bothering him came to his mind. He turned to glance at Savarding again. "I don't see the relic of the Ravelord on you, brother," he said, for the archeotech pistol that he had traded to Savardin was not on his person. When Rukiel had possessed it he had not been able to let it out of his sight. "What has become of it?"

"Don't worry about the relic," Savardin said. "It is safe and in good hands."

* * *

"All systems report full readiness," Lharkus announced, turning to face Rukiel who was standing on front of his command throne. The last surviving Pureblood of the Dark Blood, now one of the three surviving ones of the Obsidian Talons, sported a new plasma gun and many other lesser weapons that had been claimed from the spire of his dead warband. He had personally lead the raid, showing many of the traps, secrets and assets of the spire to his new warband, taking many of them for himself.

Rukiel nodded in acknowledgement. "You have the destination. Disengage from the spire and lead us into the Eye.

"By your will, lord."

The bridge was so different from the one Rukiel had commanded in the past, it was so much bigger and grander. Only thing he had wanted to retain from the past were the two Spawn Marine that had the honor guarding the door of his new bridge, just like they had once done onboard the _Raven's Shroud._ They were the only part of the decoration that had some emotional value for Rukiel, and so he had relocated them.

"It feels good going to war with a ship like this," Kerverax said as he gazed over the massive bride beside Rukiel's throne.

"Yes it does," Rukiel replied with a smile, openly admiring his new ship. The feeling of commanding a true Astartes warmachine, a massive ship like this, filled with hundreds of troops under his rule, felt great. The might he possessed in his hands was tremendous, enough to threaten entire star systems. It made him feel powerful, more powerful than he had ever felt. He liked that feeling. "Reminds me of the days of Heresy."

 _Ars Moriendi_ separated from the spire of its master and slipped from the orbit of the nameless world, diving into the radiant half real currents of the Eyespace.

* * *

 **Calm before the Storm.**

 **I hope you liked this chapter and I will see you next time.**


	3. Chapter 3

**No Man's Storm**

 **Chapter 3**

* * *

 _ **"Civilization begins with order, grows with liberty and dies with chaos."**_

 _ **-Will Durant**_

The first thing Rukiel saw when the oculus ports opened after Warp transit was the Maelstrom. It completely dominated the void ahead of the _Ars Moriendi,_ much in the same way the greater Eye of Terror did in another corner of the galaxy. It was not as big or as chaotic in shape, the star maelstrom looking almost more like a miniature galaxy rather than a rough shaped maddening wound in reality. And the next course of action was getting inside it and taking it over.

"Initiate the post-Warp transit protocols, bring us to full operational readiness. Engage wide auspex sweep," Rukiel commanded from his throne. "We need to make contact with the rest of the crusade host, any sight of them?"

"No immediate contact, my lord. Expanding sensor area."

The Endymion Cluster was right next to the border of the Warpstorm, some regions of it slipping in and out from the caress of the Empyrean, like this sytem. Some of the furthest planets and other satellites of the systems slipped just into the warpstorm when the tides were pulsing wide, before emerging again in days or decades. It was easy to slip inside from here, even with the whole crusade fleet. It was always easier to enter a Warpstorm than leaving it.

Some crusade elements should have reached here before Rukiel, so now he only had to find them and wait for the others. This was still very much Imperial territory however, so he doubted the crusade host had chosen to approach the inhabited core of the system. It was a rather meaningless system with no important worlds, but it was best to not poke the Imperials for no reason. They were not here to slay slaves of the Corpse Emperor, they were just stopping here to regroup. The Imperials would probably notice them sooner or later, but it did not matter. They would be long gone when any reaction forces of sufficient size could reach them, if they were dispatched in the first place.

"Extreme distance auspex echoes," yelled a sensor officer suddenly, capturing Rukiel's full attention.

"Well that did not take long," Kerverax mused. "Let's hope it is not an Imperial minefield bait or something. We don't have escorts to scout for us."

Rukiel nodded as the information was relayed to his command console. "Set course towards the contact, two third of maximum engine thrust. Rise void shields and keep signal silence for now." It never hurt to be careful in imperial space. "Focus sensor sweeps forward, let me know as soon as more accurate readings can be achieved."

It took many hours in the enormous expanse of space before the new strike cruiser reached distance where more accurate sensor results of the contacts could be gained. But the engine signatures were not like Rukiel had expected.

"Some of those are not caused by human made voidships," Lharkus was the first to voice the realization. "Not unless all of them are suffering from serious power fluctuation simultaneously."

"The others are clearly human tech," Rukiel said. "Looks like some elements of the crusade hist ran into something unexpected when waiting."

"Xenos?" Kervrax asked.

"Almost certainly. Probably alien corsairs from the shelter of the Maelstrom," Rukiel answered with the most probable assumption.

"Should we engage?" Lharkus asked. "If they belong to the crusade host of Kalron, could offer a hand."

" _Ars Moriandi_ is not ready for void confrontation," Rukiel decreed. "We have almost no strike crafts or gunships, and our broadsides are inoperable. Only thing we have is lances."

"So we just wait and watch?" Kerverax asked, his voice conveying he was perfectly content with letting the other warband or warbands take care of the Xenos on their own.

"Yes," Rukiel confirmed. "Let's move to observation range but keep our distance. We can always say we were on our way to help but did not get there in time if anyone asks."

"If they destroy each other we can maybe finish of the remnants and salvage the wrecks," Lharkus mused.

"That too," Rukiel acknowledged.

"Orks..." Kerverax snarled as the ship finally reached a distance from where visual observation was possible. The maximum magnification revealed a single ship that looked like a strike cruiser, fighting against four much smaller metal junk piles Orks used as their space craft. There was a lot of debris drifting in the void around them, probably Ork ships already destroyed by the strike cruiser.

"Seems like they chose their target poorly," Rukiel said, noting how the strike cruiser was holding its own very effectively, slipping in and out of the effective weapon ranges of the Xenos guns to release its own broadsides and torpedo payloads. One of the Ork ships took one of those deadly salvos into its flank right as Rukiel watched, and its collapsing structure soon transformed into expanding cloud of fire and debris. It seemed like the lord of that strike cruiser was more than little experienced when it came to void war against the Orks.

"Engines halt. Hold these coordinates, let them deal with the Orks," Rukiel commanded. "They don't seem to be having any trouble with the greenskins, let them have their sport."

"My Lord!" came sudden shout from the officer of the vox. "We are receiving a transmission!"

"From the strike cruiser engaging the Orks?" Rukiel asked with some surprise. He had not expected them to spot _Ars Moriendi_ in the middle of a void war.

"No my lord, it comes from another source."

"Ships in the auspex!" Came the cry from the sensorium command node. "In the heading 191/017, very close. One light cruiser and two escorts, approaching fast!"

"Attack vectors?" Rukiela asked.

"No my lord, they have set a course that will pass us by. They seem to be heading towards the void battle,"

"A light cruiser and two smaller escorts, my lord."

"Move us to position to better react if the happen to try anything," Rukiel ordered. "What is the transmission?" he asked from the vox office.

"Their leading ship, _Baleful Moon,_ is transmitting that they are the warband of the Unchained, belonging to our crusade host. They request direct holotith link with the commander of this ship."

"How did they manage to surprise us like that, they are practically right behind us?" Kerverax snarled as he glanced around him.

"We were focussed on the void battle," Rukiel shrugged. "They are small ships, and vessels of the Scars are notoriously swift.

"They probably have followed us for a while," Lharkus mused.

"Admitted, open the link," Rukiel said as he adjusted his seat on the command throne. His perfect memory found up the information in an instant about the warband. Unchained were a small warband of the Vth Legion, commanding three small ships and under fifty Astartes. Their leader was…

"Khulain Khan," Rukiel greeted with a barest of nods as a hololithic projection of an Astartes on a similar command throne appeared in front of him.

"Varkhian of the Obsidian Talons," The White Scar said with thick Chogoran accent, motioning with his hand a gesture unknow to Rukiel. His white ornate armor was decorated with black trim and golden detailing, and there was a black fur cloak on his shoulders. His top knotted head was scarred, both by battle wounds and self inflicted ones, he had sunken brown eyes, and Rukiel noted he was the only representative of the Vth Legion bloodline without mustache that Rukiel has ever seen. Maybe the scarring of the lips would have made it look inadequate by the Legion's facial hair standards.

"I see your ship is keeping its distance from the fight with the Xenos?" The Lord of the Unchained said with a questioning tone, one of his brows raised.

"My ships is currently somewhat lacking in void capability," Rukiel said. "Our cousins seem to have no trouble with murdering the greenskins so I thought it would be impolite to involve myself in their battle."

"Suit yourself, my ships are moving into engage, killing Orks is an age old tradition of us Astartes after all." Khulain replied. "You know who the greenskins are fighting against? They are not responding to our hails."

"No, I do not. Whoever of the crusade host was here first. We don't have that many strike cruisers so the possibilities are limited. Maybe they are the Screaming Minds or Death Phantoms. I doubt it is Kalron's own strike cruiser."

"Well, it does not matter, the greenskins are dead anyway. Rather considerate of them to offer us a way to spend time while we wait for the rest of the crusade host."

"Indeed. Good hunting," Rukiel said as he closed the link. He watched as the White Scar ships cruised past _Ars Moriendi_ , lining themselves up for a release of a torpedo salvo.

"Well if the Scars are going to engage, I don't think there is harm in moving to have a closer look. The greenskins are practically dead already so they should not be able even attempt to cause damage to us. All engines, full power, move us to 120 000 kilometres from the closest Ork ship, full auspex coverage in case there is more of them."

"By your will, lord"

* * *

When the first of the White Scar escorts exploded into a miniature supernova, it was clear to everyone that something was wrong.

"Battle stations!" Rukiel called, despite the fact that his ship was severely lacking in offencive power. "What happened?"

"One of the escort ships of the White Scars took a hit from a wide range microbattery broadside and was destroyed," The officer of the sensory replied after a moment of consulting his console slaves. "The only surviving Ork ship is fleeing the scene, others are crippled or destroyed. It looks like the strike cruiser is firing upon the White Scars, my lord. _Baleful Moon_ and its remaining escort are turning about and disengaging."

"Align us for a shot from the brow lances at the strike cruiser, fire when ready. After that turn us around and take us the hell away from it," Rukiel commanded with a scowl, instantly reaching the obvious conclusion. "It is an Imperial ship."

"It seems like it does not belong to the crusade host after all," Lharkus noted. "It must have been hunting the Orks and we just had to ran into it."

"Hopefully the lances will discourage it from pursuing us, they totally outgun us," Kerverax snarled.

"How did we not notice they were loyalists until they started shooting at us, for damnations sake?! Lharkus asked as he consulted many of the view screens in his line of sight.

"Maybe the extreme proximity of the Waprstorm stopped us from picking up their transmitted Imperial identification codes," Rukiel grunted as he considered their positioning. Since there had not been identification code transmissions he had naturally assumed it was not an Imperial ship, for it would have been foolish for the members of the crusade host to transmit the codes of their true allegiance in the Imperial territory. "Or Maybe they had simply turned them off if they were trying to ambush the Orks."

"A request for a direct link from the _Baleful Moon_ for you, lord," a voice called out, and Rukiel allowed it through instantly. The image of the White Scar Khan appeared in front of him again, slightly distorted by static this time.

"It is the Sons of the dead Warmaster…" The White Scar said with a good show of calm despite just losing one of his three ship. "They had a Cobra squadron running silent in the void, currently pursuing my ship, followed by the strike cruiser. I take it that you are not willing to provide assistance in this conflict?"

"No I am not," Rukiel responded as he quickly checked the tactical map for the situation. If the Sons of Horus had been closer and had an actual chance of catching up to them, he might have tried to shoot at the White Scars to leave them as cripple to slow done the loyalists. It did not look like however that that would be necessary. "I am leading my ship into the cover of the Warpstorm, I suggest you follow us in. It is no longer safe to remain now that the Imperials know we are here."

"Agreed, right behind you," Khulain transmitted as he cut the link. Rukiel noticed how the White Scars ships were aligning themselves behind _Ars Moriendi._ They adopted a course that was enough so that their weapons did not point at the Raven Guard strike cruiser, but they were allowing the larger ship to sweep the void ahead of them in case of an ambush or a dangerous shift in the tides of the Maelstrom.

Rukiel leaned to Kerverax. "Send a psychic message to the rest of the crusade fleet: The Imperials are patrolling the original staging ground and we are entering the Storm. Request for a new gathering location."

"As you wish," Kerverax said as he turned around and headed towards what replaced the old astropathic sanctums of the ship. Raven Guard ships were very hostile environments to psykers for reasons other than the Purebloods themselves. The old Astropaths taken from the Iron Warriors along with the ship had been rendered useless, to no one's surprise, when Rukiel had taken command of the ship, so he had gotten creative when establishing the means of communicating through the Empyrean. He was actually pretty proud of how he had improved upon with what he had had onboard _Raven's Shroud_ , even though the side effects rendered the area around the old astropathic chambers beyond use. It would seem the old Astropaths, most of them still technically alive for what it was worth, did not quite appreciate the new look of their quarters as much as he did.

 _Ars Moriendi_ and the other two ships of the Scars reached the edge of the Maelstrom's chaotic tides and slipped in like a marinal animals taken by a merciless raging storm, entering the realm of the Primordial Annihilator.

* * *

The Shipmaster of the _Vigilant Eye_ followed with his gaze through the magnified image capture as the ships of the foul traitors slipped into the mad caress of the Maelstrom and disappeared into the stormy miasma of half reality. The ships looked like they were swallowed whole by some grand formless beast, but the shipmaster had long since learned it was usually futile to hope the tides would crush those that sought the corrupting shelter of the warpstorm.

"Tell all the escort squadrons to break off the encirclement maneuver and join up with the flagship," he commanded with calm routine. "Remain in readiness but consider the engagement over. Full exit from battle readiness once we reach a safe distance from the warp storm's edge and join up with the rest of the ships." He spared one final distasteful look towards the raging madness in the void where no light of the God Emperor could reach. "Turn us about and plot a course away from that foul thing."

The sounds of battle state sirens finally calmed away and many members of the crew relaxed in their stations as the _Vigilant Eye_ changed its course and left the boiling Maelstrom behind it. The Shipmaster took his first official breath out of battle as he turned to look at the commander of the ship who was sitting on a command throne just behind him.

The Astares Captain in the noble colors of sea green and gold of the Sons of Horus was focussed on taking in the after battle readings and reports, leaning ever so slightly with his only unaugmented hand to the hand rest of the throne. His scarred shaven head was a image of implacable marbe as his bright eyes took in enormous amounts of data that came from leading void operations.

The shipmaster took a step towards his lord, not disturbing him but indicating he had something to say, something that could wait until the Captain found time to spare. He did not have to wait for long

"Those were ships of the Archenemy," the captain said with strong but calm voice. "Traitor Legions..." His voice was distorted by a hint of loathing, and his claw hand twitched with irritation.

"Indeed, my lord," the shipmaster said. "As has been reported widely in this region of space, the rise in traitor activity has increased exponentially in the recent years. The amount of Heretic Astartes ships, like those we just encountered, is especially concerning."

"I know." The Captain said thoughtfully. "The traitors have displayed abnormally high interest in the Maelstrom recently." He adjusted his position, many servos of his augmentics letting out barely audible noises. "You saw those ships just now. They were more than just a small raiding party. They had an Astartes strike cruiser. And they dove into the storm to flee despite not facing overwhelming forces."

The shipmaster watched as the Captain consulted data screens of his throne.

"Despite the number of sightings of traitor presence in the region, there has been not increase in their raids into Imperial space or full blown planetary invasions. Quite the contrary, the Ork piracy had decreased notably, even if far from vanishing entirely. What do you make of this, shipmaster?"

"The Orks are finding the fights they are looking for inside the Storm," Shipmaster replied after a moment of thought. He had witnessed number of times that Orks did not especially care who they were raiding against, seeing little difference between the loyal servants of the Emperor and the foul traitors. "The many traitor forces are converging in the Maelstrom, apparently focusing more on internal matters than plaguing Imperial Space. The Orks are finding themselves busy with them instead of us."

"So it would seem indeed, shipmaster," The Captain said with approval, . "I am afraid the signs are pointing in the direction of Arch Enemy strengthening its foothold in the Maelstrom region. Which will inevitably lead to increased threats to the Imperial worlds in the surrounding sectors. I have already informed the Legion command and Segmentum fleet leadership, for now we just continue sending in more evidence of what is happening. We should ready ourselves while we can, ready ourselves for the dark times that I fear are coming for us."

"I know, my lord." Shipmaster replied, the Captain finally conforming with words what he had expected for a long time. "And when the enemy comes, we will be ready to send them back to hell in the Emperor's name as we have always done."

The Captain smiled, lifting his gaze to the cold void outside the occulus screens. "Indeed, shimaster. We will be ready to do the duty men before us have done for millennia. The Enemy knows we are here, eternally standing against them and ready to cast them to oblivion where ever their may lurch their heads. They know our armies of brave soldiers will be ready to take anything they can throw at us, they know that us of the Emperor's finest are ready to strike them however many times it takes, they know our grand fleets will never rest in protecting the Emperor's worlds, and they know our big guns never tire."

 **I hope you liked this chapter and I will see you next time.**


	4. Chapter 4

**No Man's Storm**

 **Chapter 4**

* * *

 ** _"Have you ever asked yourself, do monsters make war, or does war make monsters? Armies need beasts, don't they? Pet beasts, to do their terrible work! "_**

 ** _\- Laini Taylor_**

The gathering of ships in the system was even greater than it had been in the initial muster within the Eye of Terror. The crusade host gathered in a blue starred system of the Maelstrom had been bolstered by small warbands, pirates, human allies of the larger warbands and other groups that had heard of the endeavour on the way from the Eye.

Rukiel saw ships of a hundred different stripes, ships from the age of the Heresy, ships claimed from Imperials along the long millennia, ships constructed in the orbits of hellish worlds of the Dark Mechanicum, and even some rare ships of clear alien origin, all of them showing numerous allegiances and signs of being touched by the Warp.

Some of them had resided inside the Maelstrom and now were flocking to the ever growing armada. Because they saw a new dominant force in that making, because they were drawn in by the chances of plunder such massive actions of war would result in, because they held deep grudges against the Ultramarines becoming more and more prevalent in the storm, or from other myriad reason - it didn't matter in the end.

The newcomers provided valuable intelligence of the current state of the Warpstorm, information that was most useful to Lord Kalron. The locations of the Ultramarine's strongholds and the sizes of the war fleets were valuable currency, and from the knowledge gathered from multitude of sources, great war plans were being forged. The Ultramarines were not an unified force in the Maelstrom, just warbands of varying sizes laying claim to new territories and even feuding with one another, just like was the situation in all the great Warpstorms. There was no traitor's unity in the Long War. But when the Ultramarines realized a new force had entered the storm with the intend of conquest, they would quickly gather the scraps of brotherhood they had left and scram together against a common foe. That was why it was important to strike fast and hard enough so that the XIIIth could not mount a resistance powerful enough to challenge Lord Kalron's claim.

The initial war plans indicated the crusade host would split for a while to strike at a multitude of targets, harrowing and crippling blows that would weaken the truly important strongholds of the Ultramarines by denying resources, reinforcement and information, while at the same time wrecking confusion and disorder among the enemy about the nature and strength of the crusade host. With some fortune it would also discourage the allies of the Ultramarines from offering help once they saw the power of the XIIIth crumble.

So far, it looked like a recipe for victory. The crusade host was massive and there was almost certainly no force in the Maelstom that could equal or eclipse it. But wars in a Warp Storm were never so simple. So many things could go wrong in a realm where even the laws of reality could switch their allegiance. Large forces of this nature were extremely hard to command and even harder to keep together and direct towards a common goal. Some splintering was inevitable and to be expected in increasing numbers the longer the war went on. Part of the reason why they were splitting the crusade host against multiple targets was just that they could find something to fight fast, something to point the most unruly elements of the force towards while they were still directable and useful. Some elements of the crusade host did not give damn about Kalron's goals or what the master of the Crimson Lords had to say, they were after their own benefit or simply slaughter. At least more than compared to most others, for there was hardly anyone who did not seek something for themselves with this war for the Maelstrom, including Rukiel himself. They just had to hope the core of the host would have enough impact when the time came to strike to the decisive blows.

"It seems the Ultramarines are not very popular rulers of the Maelstrom," Kerverax said next to Rukiel as they stood in the hangar bay of the _Ars Moriendi,_ gazing out into the void at the gathering of ships.

"There are hardly rulers in any of the great Warpstorm that could be classified as popular," Rukiel replied.

"We lost some on the way from the Eye, though," Lharkus said as he looked at the ships. He had paid close attention to the internal matters of the crusade host. "At least the warbands of the Helion Scourges and The Hundred Sons were intercepted and destroyed by the Iron Warriors when exiting the Eye. Probably more suffered a similar fate that we do not know of."

Rukiel glanced at Lharkus. The former member of the Dark Blood had proved himself valuable when it came to logistics and he had a good grasp of void operations. He was also not very ambitious. While Kerverax lacked the true sharp wit and drive to be a threat to Rukiel, Lharkus lacked the courage. A perfect combination of lieutenants, Rukiel quite appreciated having them. "There is a warband calling themselves _The Hundred Sons_?" He asked with a some amusement.

"There was," Lharkus shrugged. "They had ten or so Astartes, in case you were wondering."

One of the tech adepts responsible of the hangar bay approached Rukiel and his company. "Your craft is ready, my lord," The hunched form clad in somehow disturbingly clean robes rasped from the depths of his dark hood, its cleanliness sticking out in the otherwise dirty space of the hangar bay. It was liked the fabric sucked in anything, including some light that dared to touch it.

Rukiel did not acknowledge the adept and simply walked towards a Thunderhawk gunship, followed by the other Purebloods, squad Skaron and the Mortet Guard. Savardin had picked along a very interesting ally, one that Rukiel very much wanted to meet. And he made sure to bring as much of a honor guard along with him as he could, just in case.

* * *

Skaron followed behind the Purebloods along the stark corridors of the frigate _Infitus,_ escorting his honored lord into the bowels of the small but significant vessel. There was no Astartes presence to welcome them, only mortal slaves.

Skaron took note of the condition of the slaves. Like onboard _Ars Moriendi_ , they were pale creatures, even more colorless than the Marines they served. They were white, not just their skin, but their hair, nails, gums, even their blood and insides if you cut them open. They gazed at the world with empty orbs of milky white and black expressions, drained of all color except for the rags they wore. It was no even pure white, but a ghoulish tint like a dried bone left under a scorching sun, as if all semblance of life and spirit had been drained from them by their surroundings.

It was a fate of most who were brought on board Raven Guard ships, at least those ones that Skaron had seen. He did not know what it was like onboard the ships of other XIXth Legion warbands, and he did not care to know. Only servitors and those crew members who needed to be more than drained mindless deck drones, like officers and personal serfs, retained their human appearance. But onboard _Infitus_ Skaron could see only these white walkers, emotionless thralls laboring in complete silence.

There was a single blank faced slave that escorted the members of the Obsidian Talons through the gritty corridors of the frigate, leading them deeper and deeper into the depth of the ship. As the time passed, the silence of the dark corridors was disturbed. Skaron could hear whispers. Extremely faint whispers, so frail that it took him a while to actually conclude they existed. They were not constant and intrusive whispering like one might hear during turmoilous Warp transit. They were distant, incomprehensible, elusive, fading away for a long time before returning again.

"Can you hear the whispers, brothers?" Skaron asked on a private squad vox channel. "What are they saying?"

There was moment of quiet and Skaron could sense the unknown brothers of his squad behind him glancing at one another. "What whispers?" came the voice of Oirak-IX. None of the others said a word. Skaron fell silent and tried to ignore the voices.

Before Skaron honored lord Varkhian pulled to a halt before half open doors decorated with white bones of human origin. The honored lord pulled the doors slightly to allow him entry and the rest of the warband followed him in.

Inside was a nightmarish twisted parody of a laboratorium.

The space was filled with countless machines, most connected to transparent pods of all sizes, with vague shapes floating inside of them. One hundred dissection tables of many patterns and modifications were scattered around the space, some of them occupied by many forms of living specimens, or remains of such. The ceiling rained down a thousand chains that hung corpses or slightly moving humanoid shapes above the heads of the Astartes in the chamber. There were open sunken pools in the floor, filled with bumbling lakes of red or black liquids. The air smelled of blood, chemicals, despair and touch of the Warp so strongly it could be tasted. There were other sights of horror in the edges of the room, mostly hidden by the darkness where the light of the bright lumen lights could not reach. There were no visible walls, only darkness in all directions from the illuminated center, small dots of machine lights betraying the existence of even more equipment of mad creation beyond sight.

White humanoid thralls were scurrying around the objects of the chambers, attending to a thousand duties of all natures. They were different from the other pale shades of humans from the rest of the ship. They were also only the color of ghoulish white, but all of them lacked eyes, noses, mouths and ears in addition, making them truly faceless.

And in the center of the chamber, working next to one of the dissection tables and a data screen hanging from a floating servo skull, was an Apothecary.

The master of this ship was an Astartes clad in simple black power armor, framed by a great black mantel falling over his shoulders and hiding hic powerpack from sight. His helmet was a pale gray mask of a avian design, a long sharp beak extending our beneath circular black lenses. Various small tools and weapons were hanging from the armored frame of the XIX legion genelord, mostly hidden by the great cloak. One of his hands was consulting the data screen floating by him, while his other held onto a small sharp pointed stick that looked like it was made from dark glass or ice.

The Apothecary glanced up from his work at the members of the Obsidian Talons by the door of his sanctum, and then lowered his head again. There was no hurry in his moves as he was letting the honored lord wait. Skaron did not like this failure of recognition his lord was receiving.

"The Lord of the Obsidian Talons has business with you, fleshcrafter. Do not let him wait," Skaron said before he could stop himself, surprising even himself by the looseness of his tongue. He knew he might have spoken out of turn, and he did not know why. It must have been the sight of all this work of madness around him that made him restless. He could feel the gaze of the Purebloods on him but they did not say anything.

The Apothecary looked up again, focussing his black retinal lenses to Skaron. Those black, black, eyes. Skaron felt very cold all of a sudden.

The Apothecary left his previous work of interest behind and started walking towards the Obsidian Talons with calm movements, slowly making his way closer. He was short for an Astartes, Skaron observed, much shorter than any other transhuman Skaron had seen, even if still a giant compared to mortals. The Apothecary stopped right before Skaron, looking up to him with slightly tilted head.

" _Do you think you are in position to tell me to do anything?"_ The Apothecary said with a smooth voice that reverberated with strange and disturbing echo. " _You think that you_ _can tell me to hurry? Oh, someone like me is not to be hurried by anyone."_ The Apothecary lifted his transparent stick and waved it slowly in front of Skaron like he was scolding him. He turned his head to look at the honored lord. " _You should keep you whelps in check better, Rukiel..."_ he said as he gently tapped Sakron's right hand with his stick. Skaron's hand felt very cold for a second. The Apothecary turned and walked back towards his dissection table with the same calm movements.

Skaron lifted his right hand and observed it. It felt so cold. Until suddenly it flared hot. The ceramite gauntlet rippled and then splintered apart as the flesh under it bulged and twisted uncontrollably. Skaron watched as his hand, his own hand, suffered from sudden turmoil of structure and spasmed like it had a mind of its own. His fingers grew in length and twisted to point into unreasonable directions, his nails growing into sharp spikes in the ends. The hand trashed around, the fingers looking for purchase from the rest of him like spidery limbs, and then it lunged at his face with unexpected strength. It leaped to hug his face, the spiked digits clawing at his helmet, seeking to tear it apart. Skaron watched in horror as his own flesh rebelled against his right behind his eye lenses.

There was a sound of a flaring power field as the honored lord activated his spear. Shadower spun around in a precise arc, slashing at Skaron. The power spear cut through Skaron's right wrist, separating the wild mutated flesh from the rest of his body, his blood splattering to the metal floor of the laboratorium. The _thing_ clawing at Skaron's face slackened and lost some of its strength, and Skaron took the chance to grab it with his other hand and forcefully cast it down to the floor.

The severed parody of a hand twitched and moved around, turning to face Skaron again. Before it could do anything further, the honored lord stomped down on it with his metallic boot and utterly squashed it. When he lifted his foot, there was only a small splat of torn flesh, powdered bone and blood.

Skaron breathed heavily as he lifted his gaze to look at the honored lord. Lord Varkhian spared a passing gaze over Skaron's stump of an arm that he had just created, the bleeding already being stopped by the Larraman cells.

"Visit the artificer sanctum when we get back and tell Haxxor to get you an augmetic replacement," the honored lord said impassively and then looked away.

Skaron nodded and pulled back while clutching his ruined hand.

It took many minutes of waiting on the part of the Obsidian talons before the Apothecary was finished whatever he had been doing and saw fit to return to his guests. Honored lord moved up to meet him. Skaron made sure to stay in the background for the rest of the meeting.

* * *

"I am pleased that Savardin managed to get you to join us in this endeavour," Rukiel said as he curiously looked at one of the bodies lying on a dissection table. It looked like a normal human, except that its skin was ashen gray. He could feel the touch of the Primordial Annihilator upon the thing. "Your talents will be of great help."

" _The skills of an Apothecary are always in need,"_ Apothecary Oizys Krios replied, looking at the same gray human that he had obviously shaped in some way not visible to the naked eye. " _There are bound to be interesting specimen in the Maelstrom and among the Ultramarines worthy of my time_."

"I am sure there will be plenty of resources for you in exchange for your services," Rukiel agreed. "I am ready to make sure you get good picks of deamon worlds and their populations for your experimentations."

" _Very generous of you."_ Krios replied.

It was not. More like it was appropriate. Apothecaries of the XIXth were fully aware of the value of their craft. It was not unusual of the genemasters of the Legion to demand entire worlds' worth of specimen in exchange of their help. A price the lords of the Legions were fully willing to pay.

"Yes. In exchange I would like your assistance with a particular matter."

" _I am listening."_

* * *

Skaron made his way through the corridors of the the _Ars Moriendi_ and entered through the bulkhead guarded by two heavily modified combat servitors. The artificer sanctum was filled with Dark Mechanicum adepts, tech thralls and servitors attending to the equipment reserved for the true legionnaires or working on the machines he did not knew the purpose of.

"Haxxor!" Skaron barked harshly as he looked around for the machine adept in charge. He was in a really sour mood. Losing one's arms apparently caused that.

The centipede like thing of little flesh and a lot of metal crawled forward beyond a corner and approached Skaron. His many legs made an irritating sound as they scratched the floor. The single large green eye focussed on the Legionnaire. "You requested me?" the things said with a mechanical sound of a vox port, not displaying enough respect for Skaron's liking. Haxxor never showed true reverence to anyone but the Purebloods.

"I lost my hand. I need you to give me an augmented one," Skaron grunted, still seething from the loss of his limb.

"You want an augmented hand?" Haxxor said with a questioning tone, making strange clicking sounds from inside his hood.

"Yes, to replace my lost hand!" Skaron growled. "Get on with it!"

Haxxor did not move and looked at Skaron curiously. "What lost hand are you referring to?"

Skaron felt his anger rising. He lifted his right hand. "This bloody stump you wretch! Are you blind?!" Then his gaze fell on the stump. Except it was not a stump. It was a hand. A naked, fully formed and working hand sprouting from inside the ruined ceramite of his wrist armor. A pale, white skinned hand.

* * *

 **I hope you liked this chapter and I will see you next time.**


	5. Chapter 5

**No Man's Storm**

 **Chapter 5**

* * *

 ** _"There is such a thing as tempting the gods. Talking too much, too soon and with too much self-satisfaction has always seemed to me a sure way to court disaster. The forces of retribution are always listening. They never sleep. "_**

 ** _-Meg Greenfield_**

It was a long war. Not as long as _the_ Long War, but still it felt long, despite time having only a fraction of its relevance in a realm of hell. How long it took, Rukiel could not tell of course. Many concepts of the material universe were sometimes little more than jests in a Warpstorm, where reality and unreality folded over each other. Time and space were subjects to the whims of the Great Ocean. One could walk between one end and the other of a ship corridor and always count the same number of steps and seconds it took. Such small measures of space and time did rarely abandon mortal beings, and if they did there was probably something amiss in one's mind rather than in the surroundings. But when it came to space and time concepts of greater scale, of unfathomable distance of the void and the time without familiar standards of cycle, when the aspects of the universe grew too big for a human mind to truly grasp, when it was only possible to categorize something in vague terms like big, long, far, or a lot, that was when the Warp came in and twisted everything along its own patterns.

The war for the supremacy in the Maelstrom started like a sudden hammer blow. The forces of the crusade's hosts came out of nowhere and attacked Ultramarine ships, destroyed their space installations and laid siege to their worlds. Most of the early targets fell almost immediately in the face of totally overwhelming force, the Ultramarines taken completely by surprise, either not managing to rise sufficient defences or fleeing before risking destruction.

The Void War of the Witchscream nebula, The Destruction of Kiligar's Maw, The siege of Hatron IV. All great victories for Lord Kalron's crusade host.

For a moment, the briefest moment, it seemed like there was no stopping Kalron from casting down the Ultramarines as the dominant Astartes presence in the Maelstrom. The crusading host would relentlessly sweep through the Warpstorm and eradicate any opposition before adding the fruits of conquest to their own forces. It seemed like a certain victory. But it was only a short lived success, for the unstoppable momentum did not last forever.

The Ultramarines reacted swiftly. Unbelievably swiftly. After the first of their warbands had their world ransacked and fleets burned, the others were ready for what was coming for them. Ultramarines had always been good at reacting, but Rukiel soon discovered he had overestimated the degeneration and entropy of the XIIIth Legion. Unlike the force assailing them, they were sons of a shared Progenitor, and there was still something left in them of the masters of organization and coordination they had once been. The warbands, or _chapters_ , as the Ultramarines called them almost universally, joined together to form greater military forces with ease and blunt fluidity that surprised Rukiel, showing ability to unify that would have been impossible for almost any other of the nine Legions.

Chapters could join together sometimes unnaturally seamlessly, as long as their commanding lords were willing and gave their blessings to the alliances. Warlords could kill their brothers and merge their warbands with little to no difficulties among the greater part of the chapters, differences between line Legionnaires as if none-existent. Different chapters waged war side by side, following common and shared methods of war, making it sometimes impossible to see where one chapter ended and another began. Their fleets worked in relative coordination, bordering excellent by the standards of the Warpstorm, and did not get in each other's way, most of the time at least.

The Codex Chaotica, be it a work of madness penned by a foolish being dead for millennia, was in the end a great asset for the sons of Guilliman. For the first time since the failed Siege, Rukiel was, grudgingly, almost impressed by the Legionaries of the XIIIth. Rukiel wondered what would happen, what would be possible if a single leader would ever rise to lead the entire Legion.

It began with the assault of the Kurdathal system. Recently captured by warbands of the crusade host in the early stages of the war, the relatively scarcely defended system came under complete surprise attack by an overwhelming force of Ultramarines that recaptured the system, disrupted the foodhold of the crusade host and destroyed many elements that had gathered to the system to repair and rearm. The attempt to re-conquer the system resulted in near catastrophic defeat. The crusade host could not send their more powerful warbands away from the front lines to deal with Kurdathal, and half of the forces send to recapture the system were completely decimated in an ambush set by the XIIIth Legion. The remaining half could not take the system and had to limp back with much of their forces diminished.

This incident, along with a handful of others of smaller scale, but combined of the same significance, resulted in a loss of momentum for the crusade host it could not afford.

The almost failed siege of the White Fortress of Ghangal showed this clearly, as the Ultramarines were able bleed the host and delay their victory for weeks. Rukiel himself lost over 200 Spawn Marines in that siege alone. It was the battle that finally truly began the fracture of the host. Some of the warbands saw the battles growing more costly and hard fought for, and fled rather than be part of a brutal war of attrition that the situation seemed to be leading to. Some warbands simply did not have the resources to continue fighting, some just saw the best part of the war over and scattered in search of more beneficial wars. Kalron managed to keep the most important elements from dividing, but the point had been reached where the host would not grow in size anymore, only the opposite. He and his allies were still strong, fully capable of finishing what they had started if they got themselves together and did not suffer more failures of great scale.

But… what finally killed the plans of the crusade host, what finally snatched the dominance of the Maelstrom from Kalron's grasp, was not caused by the Ultramarines, nor any dissent from within his own ranks. It was the Orks.

The greenskins within the Maelstrom, more numerous by far than in the Eye or the Ruinstorm, saw the wars the Legions were waging against each others, and they did not hesitate to join in. They were a third, surprising side of the war. They did not care whether they fought against the crusade host or the Ultramarines. But the Ultramarines had their fortified worlds to weather much of the Ork attacks, unlike Kalron's forces that were mostly fleet-based, only possessing few worlds freshly demolished by their conquest.

The greenskins were a thorn in Kalron's side that went deep and broke his momentum, hinderance that he could not ignore nor focus on. They harried his forces wherever they could, slowly draining resources that would have been better spent against the Ultramarines. He could not stop in his assault against the Ultramarines, but he could neither cast off the leeches that were dragging him down to a halt.

It was then that Rukiel, along with probably most of the lord of the crusade host, though few said it outloud, realized, the war was unwinnable.

Kalron knew it. He was not a fool, so he did not stubbornly continue on a course that would lead to slow but certain defeat, a course that would see his allies abandoning him or turning against him. He choose the best course of action available to him: he would stop. He would take what he had conquered, finalise his power in the Maelstrom with one last major victory that would leave him not as the ruler of Malestrom, but unmovable might still. The Ultramarines would not be driven out, but they would be rendered unable to drive out Kalron either. A bitter compromise, a stalemate that was all too familiar among the great Warpstorms. A stalemate that would eventually lead to a situation alike in the Eye and the Ruinstorm, with a numberless factions waging perry wars against each other for numberless reasons. Conflict, as was the nature of Chaos.

* * *

That final victory was called Hell's Iris. It was a heavily fortified planet in a the middle of the Maelstrom, as far as locations could be pinpointed in a such a hellish realm. It was a base of operation of one of the largest Ultramarine chapters, and was one of three major positions of power of the Ultramarines in the Maelstrom. This was mostly thanks to the massive Remilies-class star fortress anchored in orbit of the planet, capable of defending against most foes and invaders with ease and offering ship logistics that allowed easy dominance of nearby systems. The world was practically beyond violation against raiding and small scale fleets. If Kalron managed to conquer this world and take the starfort, his foothold in the storm would be cemented, making him one of the great powers of the storm, even if not a sole dominant one. But such a feat was not shameful in anyway, Rukiel could not imagine what he would have given for the power that would be Kalron's if they took the Hell's Iris. _If_ they took it.

The Strategium of the _Blood Reaver_ was a massive space above the command levels, a large circular sanctum decorated by signs of past victories and crushed enemies. It warmed Rukiel's black heart to see so many vanquished Imperial symbols as defiled trophies.

Many of the most powerful lords among the crusade host were present, though a significant portion only via hololithic projections. The lesser leaders would receive the wishes of Kalron after the council.

Rukiel was there with Lharkus and a portion of his Mortet guard, flanking Savardin's delegation, the two of them practically a sub faction inside the host. Savardin was accompanied by three other Purebloods and no Spawnkin, making him one the few lords with practically no honor guard, showing how much trust he had for Kalron, further expressed by him standing right beside the Crimson Fist warlord.

Another major lord of the crusade host was standing on the other side of Kalron. Du'rhan Pyrefist of the Salamanders, leader of the World Burners. He was a large Astartes, only one present who almost rivaled Kalron in sheer bulk. His ornate armor was decorated with multiple golden draconian heads and flame iconography, and scaled cloak of emerald like material fell down his backside. He carried no melee weapons, which was practically unnatural for an warrior of the nine Legions, but he was far from defenceless. His left hand was unarmored below the elbow, showing an ebon black arm that had mutated to end his fingers in sharp talons. The air around the arm shimmered and Rukiel could hear the faint hissing as slight vapour rose from the arm.

The arm was apparently hard as adamantium and hotter than the scorch of a plasma weapon, where the title of the Salamander lord originated. Anything it touched was exposed to intense heat and melted under his touch, often in but a beat of a heart. It was the only melee weapon Du'rhan needed. The downsides of the "boon" were also very clear. Du'rhan could not turn the heat off, rendering his left hand permanently unable to touch anything without obliterating it. The wrist mounted bolter of his right hand could not be reloaded by him because of the intense mutation, rendering him dependant of relying slaves for rearming himself.

There were other lords as well, none of them as esteemed and powerful and the triarch of Kalron, Savardin and Du'rhan. There was the Haswild of the Dark Angels, Transon of the Iron hands, Balfor of the Space Wolves and Kurandal who lead a patch work warband of traitors from loyal Legions. Rukiel paid them little heed.

"We will take this world," Kalron declared as an opening to the council, radiating such certainty it almost visibly reassured the resolution of many of the lords present. It was a statement of fact about an event that was far from certain. In war, moral and spirit were a resource measured in blood, resources and results, and Kalron knew this well. "And when my banner rises above the fortress on the soil of the planet and the starfort in the orbit, you may be certain I will not forget who made it all possible with their blood. Each and every one of you who have stayed with my crusade host till the end will forever have an ally in the Maelstrom. There will be plenty of chances for plunder and claiming spoils of war for you in the surrounding regions. Let it not be said the Kalron of the Crimson Lords used your might when he needed it and forgot you when the war had been won."

Rukiel smiled faintly. Sweet words, but true enough nonetheless. He would use the support of Kalron well and benefit greatly from the blunder that was to come.

"Death to the cowards and the honourless, death to the scions of the XIIIth!" Kalron bellowed, finding echoes from many of the other lords, including Rukiel. "Now, let us talk matters of war," Kalron said as multiple hololithic representations of the stage of war filled the Strategium.

* * *

The sky of the Hell's Iris was, unsurprisingly, hellish. The torrents of the Warp formed a tempest above that showered the world with its baleful light and visions of madness. The Warp was watching, Rukiel thought as he beheld the horizon on top of a small hill.

The fortress city of Pelimar rose high up in the distance, across a flat desert of bone white sand. It was too far for Rukiel to see any details, but had he been closer, he would have been greeted by a sight of multiple high rising walls, hundreds of gun emplacements and ordnance towers, and countless mutants and Ultramarine slave militias manning them.

All around Rukiel the forces of the crusade host were making planetfall and preparing for the siege. Drops ship, cargo haulers and heavy troop carriers were coming down from the fleet on the other side of the planet, transporting the warriors and tools of war right into enemy's doorstep. Thousands of Astartes. Millions of mortal slaves and mutants. Warmachines of a hundred different kind. This was true and total war, where nothing was left in reserve.

Rukiel could see the Blood Korps of Kalron forming into vast, disciplined formations on his left and stretch into the distance. Even after casualties, there were almost four million of them, their red and gunmetal armor and uniforms decorated with a crimson hand, as stylized compromise symbol that was not the VIIth Legion symbol reserved for Astartes, but still similar enough to let everyone know who these armies answered to.

Leading the Blood Korps were the Crimson Fists who walked along the formations organizing them or declaring their dedication to the Blood God. Alongside the VIIth cousins were other astartes in the yellow and black of their Legion, but none of them bore the Fist emblem, their shoulder pads painted with red. They were the Bloodsworn, adopted members of the warband raised from the Geneseed of other, mostly loyal Legion. There were Iron Hands and Death Guard, as well as World Eaters thanks to Rukiel's gifts. They were a rank below the Fists, acting by the will of Kalron absolutely in any role he deemed fit, with the threat of being implanted with brain implants that would turn them into blood mad butchers thrown against the enemy if they disappointed their lord.

Apothecary Krios was unloading his own flesh works from a large repurposed cargo hauler right next to Rukiel. Rukiel took note that the flesh monsters and other gene atrocities were kept back for now, the things flowing out from the transport being instead thousands upon thousands of gray skinned humans who looked rather ordinary, except for their empty faces and blank eyes. They were of the same type as he had seen in Krios' laboratory, now presented to him en mass. They were marching for the very front of the crusade host forces, taking their place at the vanguard consisting of mutants, cultist and other canon fodder who visible made some distance between them and the gray walkers.

"What to they _do_?" Rukiel asked, transmitting his word through a private Vox channel to the Apothecary some distance away. The bird masked Astartes glanced at Rukiel, motioning with his hand as he started to walk towards Rukiel. One of the gray walkers separated from the horde with a worldless command, making its way to Rukiel and Krios on top of the small hill they were standing upon.

It stopped before Rukiel, right when the Apothecary reached him with his bodyguard in tow.

Rukiel's attention moved from the gray human to the four shapes flanking the Apothecary. They looked very much like Astartes at the first glance, four armored warriors clad in variety of patterns of Legion's black armor, carrying bulky boltguns. A hint of their true nature was revealed by how the light reflected from them. The black surface of their armor was not metal.

" _Allow me to demonstrate,"_ Krios said, turning his head. " _You there, come here,"_ he said with words that Rukiel sensed were enhanced by the Warp to travel to their receiver. Soon enough a random human cultist that had been walking nearby approached them, stopping to kneel before the transhumans.

"M- My Lords?" the wretch squirmed, clearly feeling the Aura of oppression around them, but not daring to flee from the call.

Krios pointed at the gray walker. " _Kill that,"_ he whispered to the cultist.

The cultist looked at the Raven Guard astartes, then at the gray humanoid and then back at the transhumans. He hesitated only for a moment before he rose and moved in front of the gray human. The cultist produced a small stub pistol from his belt and pointed it at the black gray face that showed no reaction. He pulled the trigger, sending a loud bang in the air, blood staining the ground.

The gray walker fell down, dead, just as a normal human would have if shot in the head. Rukiel waited for something to happen to the corpse, but nothing did. "Well?" he asked. Krios just pointed at the cultist.

For a long moment nothing happened. Then the cultist let out a yelp as he glanced slightly to the left. Rukiel followed the man's gaze, but there was nothing there. The cultist took two steps back and lifted his pistol towards nothing. There was an another gunshot, but there was nothing for it to hit. The cultist let out a fearful growl. "Stay back!" There were two more meaningless shots and then the cultist turned on his heels and ran away screaming.

"Interesting," Rukiel said as Krios motioned towards the cultist. One of his bodyguards lifted their boltgun and fired a single bolt that tore the running wrench apart. "What did you do to them?"

" _I crafted the Warp echoes of the murder act to stick to the stain in the killer's soul."_ Krios replied, earning an appreciative nod from Rukiel. Normal cannon fodder was so useless since they were mostly gunned down before ever reaching the enemy. This was something better.

"What do you call them?" Rukiel asked.

Krios glanced at hims. " _They are DXT-54797,"_ he said like it did not matter. " _If I gave a deep and meaningful names to all my lesser creations I would ran out names really fast."_

"The witch doctor has some tricks," came a hard bass of a voice behind them. Rukiel turned to see Du'rhan walk towards them, flanked by his terminator bodyguards who had also been named very creatively as Burners. He stopped in front of the Apothecary looking down at the much smaller Astartes. "Any more Warp magic you can spin to our favour?"

Krios looked up with his emotionless mask. " _Perhaps."_

Du'rhan, looked into the distance where his Deamon Engines and other less unreliable war machines were being unloaded and contained. "Whatever for us throw at the Utramarines. I have been waiting for a long time for a war like this. Keep up the good work, witch doctor." Du'rhan walked away without another word, his terminator bodyguard in tow.

" _Warp magic,"_ Krios mused as he watched the Salamander go. " _The difference between Warpcraft and the arts of science are only seen by those who have no true grasp of either."_ Krios said before also walking away without further words, leaving Rukiel alone to behold the army around him, and the doomed Ultramarine fortress in the distance.

* * *

 **I hope you liked this chapter and I will see you next time.**


	6. Chapter 6

**No Man's Storm**

 **Chapter 6**

* * *

 _ **"There is no fundamental, immutable evil in the cosmos. It is too large and sterile for such melodrama. "**_

 ** _-Warmaster Horus Lupercal._**

It started, as huge confrontations of war usually start, with huge guns. A massive range of all kinds of siege guns and artillery pieces were brought forth and directed at the Fortress city of Pelimar by the crusade host. With a single command from Kalron onboard his flagship that was in position to start the attack against the starfort, a thousand guns opened fire in unison and made the world tremble with their mighty sounds. The void-shields of Pelimar flared with light to rival a star, almost everyone not wearing retinal protection forced to turn their eyes away to avoid risking blindness.

Skaron watched the spectacle of sound and color through his compensating autosenses, marveling at the impressive show of firepower. He was standing in one of the bunkers of the massive lines of trenches and fortifications networks raised by the crusade host forces around their artillery positions and forward reaches. They were within the artillery distance, which meant that when the when the utmost void-shield of Pelimar fell, the one strong enough to protect from orbital bombardment, so would they be within the range of the enemy guns. The main fortress and most important sections of the city would have their own void-shields to protect them from artillery and teleportation attacks, but the outer walls and most gun positions would be open for trading of fire.

Skaron was the second in command of the Obsidian Talon planetside forces. Lord Lharkus was leading the bulk of the warband, while the honored lord Varkhian and lord Kerverax had returned to the fleet to take part in the assault upon the Ramilies-class starfort in the orbit above Pelimar alongside lord Kalron and the finest of the crusade host's warriors. If they took the Starfort, they could trap the Ultramarines on the planetary city and stop any reinforcements from reaching them. If they took the city they could direct the ground to orbit missiles against the starport and have total freedom to lay siege to it at their leisure. The only way the Ultramarines could win was for them to break both attacks and withstand the hammer blows and attrition until the crusade host ran out of warriors, supplies and will.

Skaron did not have much experience when it came to sieges, but he had been given to understand the crusade host possessed an advantage in this battle, but not an overwhelming one, not even nearly enough to guarantee victory. Wars like this among the Nine Legions could go in so many direction, thanks to the whimsical nature of Fate. The death of key leaders among either side could result in the unexpected collapse of the war efforts in a multitude of ways. If Kalron was killed while assaulting the starfort, the crusade host would probably lose their spirit of common cause and almost certainly lose the capability to take Hell's Iris. Likewise, if a strike team managed to decapitate the leadership of the Ultramarines, their ability to coordinate the defence would crumble, as would their battle moral.

Skaron pushed the thought aside, absently gunning his chain axe for a second. He did not have to worry about such concerns. He would only have to care about the enemy in front of him and, after the kill, the one behind thatl. He was a warrior, not a grand strategist. All he could do was to throw his power and mettle against the enemy and crush them. His mind and muscles were already itching for battle and bloodshed, his hunger for war growing with each salvo of the artillery guns.

The guns of the crusade host continued unceasing barrage of Pelimar for twenty-one straight hours before the utmost Void shield failed. This was revealed to Skaron by the first explosions against the grand walls of the city, as well as the whistling of incoming artillery above him. He smiled with a savage expression as a order was given through the main vox channels for the first lines of cannon fodder to start their advance on foot or in variety of ramshackle transports, as well as the war horns of the few warhound titans of the crusade host blaring their war cries as they started leading lesser warmachines forward.

The Siege of Hell's Iris had begun.

* * *

Rukiel watched through the occulus screen of a keel observation deck at the Starfort firing upon them in the void. Dozens of heavy macro batteries were hurling ordinance after ordinance at the crusade host fleet closing in around it, lass batteries piercing the darkness with their bright flare beams, and plasma batteries spat out scorching miniature suns. They were mostly targeting small and medium targets, the targets they actually had chance to cripple or destroy before they would be upon them and disgorge their boarding parties. Strike Cruisers and the Battleship _Blood Reaver_ would be able to pass by the starfort in a single run of ordnance, boarding pods and torpedos without suffering meaningful damage.

Which was one of the reason Rukiel was currently on board the _Blood Reaver._ His own barely functional _Ars Moriendi_ was not worth risking against the starfort, especially since he had so little proper boarding forces. Voidship battles favored overwhelmingly quality over quantity in the tight ship corridors. Kill boxes and void breach hazards were a large problem for the mostly poorly armed and armored Spawn Marines, which was why the Spawn were much better employed on the surface where their advantages could be brought to bear much more effectively. Rukiel lead only a single elite boarding force comprised of his Mortet Guard and Kerverax that would be more effective than a hundred of the Spawnkin.

And to get his squad on board the starfort, he had been forced to catch a delivery from another ship, preferably a large one. And there was no larger ship in the armada than the _Blood Reaver._ They had spare room in their boarding torpedo launchers since the huge ship had eight of them and the Fists were not a numerous warband, and they had half of their marines on the surface of the planet, while the remaining ones would be using teleporters. Rukiel had volunteered to take part in the boarding torpedo salvo that would deliver the teleport beacons, partly because it was convenient, partly because he reasoned it would be the most secure and well coordinated way onboard the starfort, with half of the armada's void fighters covering them.

A bright flash was seen in the space relatively close to the flagship of Crimson Lords as a ship of the crusade host succumbed to the volume of enemy fire and was obliterated. The ship in question had also been one of Kalron's own.

"That was a Crusade-class light cruiser." crumbled a Fist warrior beside Rukiel, a champion of the warband and one of Kalron's lieutenants. "They don't even make those anymore."

The warrior was named Reviron, and he was in charge of the Fist squads deploying via torpedoes. He wore a relatively well preserved suit of Mark III power armor, as well as a customized horned helmet typical to the followers of the Blood aspect of the Primordial Annihilator: tall, impressive, and horrible when it came to navigating low doorframes.

There were other warriors in the chamber from two or three other warbands that had managed to get a lift from the flagship, all of them observing the battle outside while waiting for the signal to make way to the readied torpedoes couple of decks above. A more disciplined pack of warriors might have already deployed into the torpedos and missed the sight of void war.

" _34 minutes until designated torpedo launch distance,"_ came a servitor voice from vox speakers of the chamber, repeating a dull countdown that it updated every minute.

Reviron glanced at Rukiel, looking at him from head to heels with a slow evaluating gaze. "You know, I always assumed that Savardin's Onyx Sons were a unordinary warband of your Legion. I always thought you pale true sons of the XIXth would overall look a lot more, I don't know, warp touched, based on your reputation. But you of the Obsidian Talons don't look any different from your brother warband. You _Pureboods_ are apparently supposed to be almost all as old as the days we entered the Eye, but you don't look like it. I am much younger than you, I was elevated in the Eye, but I have my time in the Eyespace marked upon my flesh and wargear. You look like you could have cast of the foul shackles of the Imperium off yesterday."

Rukiel glanced at him, taking note of the small signs of mutation visible on the armored warrior. "Oh, what the Warp has done to me cannot be sufficiently expressed and displayed for worldly senses," Rukiel replied simply, his gaze taking in the yellow clad warrior. He took a note of one detail on the Crimson Fist's armor. "Those red stripes," he said with a nod towards scars of rep paint in the corner of the yellow pauldron. "What is their significance? I have seen many of your warband bear a couple of those. Too few in number to be kill marking in my opinion."

"Damn right too few for kill markings," Reviron grunted, taping at the two red stripes on his shoulder guard. "No, these are blood challenge marks. Kalron's own tradition. We warriors of the VIIth have our differences, just like every other Legion. Maybe a bit more often than some others, I admit. We are a hard and fiery breed of killer, and in our warband, when we have score, grudge, deep rivalry or matters of honor to settle with a Legion brother, we issue a blood challenge."

" _33 minutes until designated torpedo launch distance."_

"Both the challenger and the challenged draw a red oath mark upon the battle plate, signifying that we postpone our confrontation till the war at hand is resolved. If one of the pair dies in the altar of war, the mark is removed for the Blood God has already claimed his warrior. If both of the mark bearers are still alive when us of the Crimson Lords return to our fortresses in the Eye, it comes a time to resolve all our blood challenges in a grand duel to the death. Only one of the two mark bearers emerges alive and removes his mark with the blood of the dead opponent. Those of the warband with the most marks are to duel first, for their have the most possible kills ahead and their death would remove a lot of marks without personal bloodletting. The winners of a sufficient number of duels are often elevated to champions, especially if they manage to defeat a higher ranking warrior in single combat. Those often leave positions of leadership to be filled."

"A delightful tradition," Rukiel mused. That meant Reviron had two death duels waiting for him after the Maelstrom war was over. "Your aspiring champions are very, _well_ , aspiring. Is it rare for warriors to get themselves into more blood challenges for the chance to fight their duels first?

"It is not unheard of."

" _32 minutes until designated torpedo launch distance."_

Rukiel removed his gaze from the occulus and looked around the chamber. His gaze fell to Khulain Khan who was clutching a trinket while muttering some silent words, his squad of White Scars emulating their leader with similar gestures.

Rukiel took couple of steps closer, causing Khulain to glance at hit. "Offering your pleas to the Warp?" Rukiel asked, his lip curling with mirth under his helmet. "I did not know you showed worship to the aspect _Gods_ of the Empyrean." A few word were hardly going to sway the emotion concentration entities of the Primordial Truth, but superstition was an important aspect of this age of darkness.

"All great powers should be shown respect, no matter the nature, even if not truly worshipped," Khulain replied with a calm Chogorian accent.

"Do as you will," Rukiel replied.

"I thought you Raven's were firm servants of the Dark Gods," Reviron said. "That you were deeper drenched in the secrets of the Warp than most others."

Rukiel let out a dry burst of faint laughter. "Your young age is showing, Reviron," he said while looking through the oculus at an escort ship getting torn in half by weapon fire in the cold void. "We are all servant of Chaos… but the Gods are not Chaos, merely aspects of it."

"What is that suppose to mean? Please reveal your knowledge, oh mighty sage of the universe's secrets," Khulain Khan said with a masterfully crafted touch of mock in his calm voice.

Rukiel let out another small bark of mirth. "Do I look like a great lord of primordial wisdom?" he asked from the White Scare and the Crimson Fist. "Do I look like someone who has traveled the galaxy in search of hidden knowledge? Do I look like someone who has plundered eons-old tombs of dead Xenos empires or scoured hidden realms of existence for some long forgotten lore and arcane knowledge about the cosmos? Do I look like someone who think he knows everything there is to know? There is another Legion of scholar-psykers, don't mix me with them."

Rukiel took breath. "I am a warrior. I have always been a warrior, first and foremost. I wage war, that is my craft." He paused. "There... _was_ one truth _._ A great truth of the universe…" he said silently.

Rukiel looked into the deep darkness of the cold space, not focusing particularly on anything, letting a pause stretch on for a small moment that saw his smile disappear. His sixth sense beheld something that was invisible for the warriors beside him.

"There was a great, dark _truth_ out there that I found once..." He said finally. "And it was more than enough for me."

" _31 minutes until designated torpedo launch distance."_

* * *

The strong smell of ozone filled the air in tenfold compared to the last hours, and suddenly the bright flares in the sky disappeared as the main Voids yield of Pelimar collapsed, reactors buried deep into the bedrock shutting down to avoid melting down. For a moment, a brief moment, the there was a new sense of silence in the air, as the half contained air of the city was able to flow with the disappearance of the invisible barrier.

Yuron removed his simple black protective lenses from his eyes, looking at the outside world with his own eyes for a the first time in many hours now that the lights of the voidshield ripples had passed. He rose from where he had been sitting against the wall of the circular gun platform, creeping a look over the at the enemy looming in the distance.

There was a pregnant pause, a stretching moment when no ordinance was fired by either side. Then the booms in the distance told of the next volley of artillery being fired by the invaders, and soon the whistling of falling death filled the air.

Yuron took cover, taking his militia helmeted head between his hands and pressed himself against the wall, twitching his eyes hut for a moment. The whistling grew all the more sharper, until it finally resulted in a cascading explosions of noise around him, and he could feel weak tremors shake the bones of the city's walls. None of the fire hit even close to the position of his gun crew manning one of the numberless gun batteries on the walls, but the sounds of artillery fire finding fresh stone and metal to strike against was a horrible sound after hours of relative silence. Yuron waited from the explosions and the shaking to die off, not moving from his position against the curving wall around the gun.

"Get up!" yelled the Decanus in charge of the gun crew, motioning with his hands. The shield has fallen! Our orders are to commence counter fire against the enemy effective immediately! Get that gun firing, fire, fire damn you!"

The gun crew hastily checked their many times already checked firing solutions and ear protection before the man sitting in the firing throne pulled the trigger. The pre directed gun let out a deafening blam and the vibrations shook platform as the the time to fire finally came, a hundred other gun platforms along the walls performing the same action in a pseudo synchronized wave. The guns of Pelimar finally answered the fire of the invaders.

Tolian, who was the crew's spotter, looked trough the magnoculars attached to the gun platforms edge, following the trajectory of the fire falling upon the enemy. When loud boom and visible ruptures of smoke clouds could be seen in the distance, he opened his mouth. "Direct hits, no need for corrections, continue firing for effect," he said, even though the gun crew would not have been allowed to change their firing solutions without orders from the Ultramarines overlords anyway.

The gun crew hurried to reload the massive weapon, Yuron grabbing a large artillery shell from a nearby ammo feed and with an extension of force passed it along for the woman next to her who helped two others to load it into the gun. The shell was slammed firmly into the gun and the chamber closed behind it.

"Ready!"

"Fire!" the Decanus let out the order, and a another wave of sound and tremors drifted over Yuron. He grabbed the next gun, and after he passed it along, his let his gaze wander for a second. What he saw made him frown.

"Tolian," he grunted, patting shoulder of the spotter.

"What?" Tolien asked without turning from the magnoculars. "Direct hits, no need for corrections, continue firing for effect."

"Ravens," Yuron said, looking up.

"Raven?" Tolien asked like he half assumed he had heard wrong, his hearing damaged by the sound of artillery.

"Yes, can you see the Ravens?"

"There are no Ravens on Hell's Iris," Tolian replied.

"Ready!"

"Fire!"

"Direct hits, no need for corrections, continue firing for effect."

"Yuron, pass another shell!" the Decanus barked and Yuron hastily complied, picking up a fresh piece of ammunition for the gun. "Ravens. Look," he said to Tolien after the shell was taken from him.

Tolien removed his eyes from the magnoculars, looking at the the direction pointed by Yuron. There, scattered on the ramparts, towers and roofs of Pelimar, were small dark avian shapes sitting on them. They let out crackling cries, almost inaudible in the noise created by firing and falling artillery, but the sound of the birds was clearly there. Yuron looked at them and a hundred tiny, black inhuman eyes gazed back into him.

* * *

 **I hope you liked this chapter and I will see you next time.**


	7. Chapter 7

**No Man's Storm**

 **Chapter 7**

* * *

 **"War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner."  
— Cormac McCarthy **

Blood. The red liquid of life that flowed in the veins of Humanity and countless other Xenos lifeforms of the galaxy. For millennia it had been been recognised as a sign of violence, of strife and suffering. A symbol of pain and damage, a vibrant marker that was released as the body of a living being was broken.

Skaron wiped the splatter of blood from the faceplate of his mark VII helmet. The mortal, or probably mortals, who had released the red splash had been torn apart by an impact of an enemy artillery shell, and their bodies had flown into multiple directions in a shower of gore, some of which fell upon Skaron. He flicked his bloody and meaty hand to cast the red mess away and continued forward without slowing. It was not the blood that he thirsted for, it was not the blood of the enemy, that could be found only behind the high walls.

It was raining hell around him. It was raining hell in the Hell's Iris, Skaron realized. He was sure the honored lord would have appreciated the delicious fact in some strange way. Skaron realized some of it was starting to rub on him as well, otherwise he would not have realized the whole matter.

The enemy artillery fire was raining into a sea of human and mutant slaves, Astartes and war machines of the crusade host. The rain of fire was killing the mortal canon fodder all around the field, and even some military assets of actual value here and there, but it was doing little to stop the tide. The host assembled by lord Kalron could not be stopped.

Skaron was right in the middle of it all, pushing his way ever onwards towards the walls of Pelimar, which had already been heavily shelled in multiple locations in a way that would sooner or later allow for a breakthrough inside. Artillery was raining upon him, but he showed no fear, for he was an Astartes and did not feel such mortal concerns.

Astartes forces of the crusade host were scattered by warbands in the sea of lesser beings, making their way forward without much coordination with each other. Some warbands were staying behind, preferring to wait for the bolter fodder to absorb more of the damage or for the walls to collapse more, or for other reason Skaron did not care about. Maybe they were just cowards. Some warbands had transports to advance in, Rhinos, Land Raiders and other troop transports that provided protection against the incoming fire of the defenders.

Behind Skaron, Obsidian Talons were making the trip across the no man's land on foot. There would not have been enough transport vehicles for the hundreds of Spawn Marines in the armory of the warband, so the tide of cloned Astartes were making the charge fully facing the enemy guns. Skaron had already lost maybe a handful of marines, but that was a drop in an ocean.

The artillery was not an accurate tool of war, especially against a moving target. The defenders of Pelimar were shooting at them because it caused deaths to their enemy, but there was little control what those deaths were. The Astartes warriors were rather safe from the falling fire in the ocean of moving meat, simply spreading themselves was enough to make a chance of an artillery shell hitting them very slim among the millions of mortals. In addition the enhanced senses of the transhumans could even more or less detect when a shell was on a close impact course, and could react by simply changing their course slightly or at least putting more meat between them and the impact blast to soak the bulk of the damage. Sometime the fate was just not on the side of the warrior however, and in those cases there was little else to do before the shell blew them to pieces. But the host moved on.

The constant artillery barrage was slowly grinding down parts of the wall, eventually allowing a break into the city that way, but for now the gates were much easier targets. Lord Lharkus was directing himself and the warband behind him towards one the the doors into the city. It was a giant hulking gate of reinforced metal and dark sigils, but it was the weakest part of the wall surrounding the fortress.

Thousands of cultists and other canon fodder were crowding before the gate, banging it with their weapons and fist with little results. Fire from the walls was moving down dozens of them every second, yet the tide did not relent. They were a good cover for the siege engines.

First Landraider of the crusade host reached a suitable distance from the gate, and unloaded the firepower of its twin-linked lascanon sponsons into the metal bulwark standing between Ultramarines and their enemies. The bright beams of energy lanced tough swathes of mortal fodder of no consequence and clawed deep red scars into the gate. A pair of Vindicators rumbled closer, stopped on their tracks and soon released the massive fire power of their demolisher cannons. Missile fire from deamon engines and and chaos dreadnoughts was added into the hail of fire, and it did not take long before the gate started very visibly buckle and break.

Eventually a huge crack formed into the metal as part of the gate collapsed. Most of the guns fell silent, and soon a giant monstrosity of a Leviathan Siege Dreadnought in the colors of the XVIIIth Legion stomped forwards, crushing anyone mad enough to stand before it. The large siege claws of the relic machine from the days of the Heresy bit into the metal of the gate as the hulking machine started to twist it open. The metal screamed in protest as the giant ripped it apart, finally clawing the crack into a legitimate opening. The Leviathan pulled back couple of steps, before is rushed the gate with all the power of its massive frame and rammed the cracked gate open. A single missile flew from inside the fortress wall and exploded rather meaninglessly against the thick front armor of the Leviathan. The machine let out a horrible roar of rage and fury before barreling inside to begin the slaughter. The tide of the crusade host was soon to follow.

Skaron was in through the breach in moments, violently smacking aside any canon fodder that got on his way on the thigh stream trying to pass through the narrow opening. His squad was behind him, and the Spawn Marines another step back. It was at this moment the first actual shot of this battle to hit him finally found him, but the shot of the autorifle ricocheted harmlessly from his battleplate. He pushed on with even greater drive.

The space right behind the gate was maybe intended as a semi effective killzone for gunners waiting behind and on top of the wall, but it was far from sufficient. It was slaughter show, cultists and mutants were being mowed down all around Skaron, but the tide could not be held back. In front of him Skaron saw the Leviathan dreadnought making short work of a small heavy weapon position, already causing the resistance to falter. Skaron followed the direction designated by Lord Lharkus and ran across the courtyard to eagerly join the killing.

The chainaxe in Skaron's hand started roaring as he jumped over a placement of sandbags, the teeth of the weapon coming down to bite the mortal sheltering behind them. Blood spurted from the ravaged body send flying, splattering across the surface of Skaron's power armor. Now this blood, this ichor of the enemy, this was the blood he was after.

* * *

The boarding torpedo's melta cutters made short work of the starfort's hull and punctured a hole to deliver its dangerous cargo. The Mortet Guard was through the hatch in moments, Rukiel and Kerverax right behind them.

The space they entered was large chain of chambers attached to a weapon deck, clearly expressed by the sight of massive macro weapon loaders and ammo storrages. The sound of massive guns firing could be heard somewhere very close, couple of sublevels away. The mortal crew of the starfort stopped manning the ammo feed machinery and stared at the Raven Guard warriors who had suddenly appeared in their midst.

Rukiel scanned the surroundings in a second. He could spot another boarding torpedo entry poin couple of hundreds meters along the chain of chambers, seeing the yellow of Reviron's warriors, already tearing into the crew of the deck. Rukiel moved his gaze to the human's displaying the first signs of panic at the sight of him and his warriors. "Kill them, but preserve ammunition." he said coldly.

The Spawn Marine Primes of the Mortet Guard were on the mortals in the next moment, tearing them apart with their blades. Screams started to echo in the air, followed by blood sprays. Some of the mortals abandoned their positions and tried to escape, most of them getting ran down and cut down by the Primes anyway, but others were frozen or otherwise incapacitated by transhuman dread. The Spawn Marines might have been mostly physically inferior to true Astartes, but that did not lessen their brutal shock effect against lesser mortals. Clone or a not, they were still monstrous transhumans in the eye of normal humans.

Rukiel looked at sight, not bothering to join in the butchery of such meaningless chaff. He merely watched as his Primes murdered the mortals, sending their spirits to the dark plains of suffering that had spawned the Spawn Marines.

"Break them. Break them as you have been broken…" Rukiel whispered to himself as his sixth sense observed the echoing passing of the souls to the dark nameless planet that would devour them for eternity.

The few mortals alive fled, and soon the deck around Rukiel was empty except for the crusade host warriors and bodies. Rukiel motioned and his squad followed him, making his way towards the Crimson Fists at the other end of the long chain of chambers.

The teleport beacons were already in place when Rukiel reached Raviron. Khulain Khan joined them from a the opposite direction of the deck, his long curved sword already drenched in blood. Warriors of the Crimson Lords were securing the location, forming a protective perimeter around the beacon location.

Two imposing dreadnoughts were barreling from one of the side corridors, bearing the yellow of the VIIth Legion. Thye had been brought onboard by another torpedo. Rukiel looked at them cautiously, wary that the entombed warriors might go crazy and rampage across their own forces. The giant machines however did no such things, they simply took positions overwatching the beacons. Neither of them were of the ancient Contemptor pattern, but that did not make them any less imposing. One of them was armed with brutal power claws, its piston arms already drenched in blood. It was constantly roaring something indistinguishable through it's vox speakers, its claws cycling and twitching in anticipation. The other one had a chainfist and a twin-linked bolter. Its vox speakers were completely silent as it looked at the beacons with complete immobility.

Rukiel could hear vox chatter of other crusade host elements that had reached the starfort. Some of them were making their way towards Rukiel's location, some were heading for designated objectives elsewhere inside the massive structure, and some were reporting already being engaged with enemy Astartes. Savardin was also there somewhere.

"Breach point secure, prepare for incoming teleporting!" Reviron cried out as he took distance from the beacons secured to the deck. The air started to electrify and the smell of ozone was the harbinger of what was coming. There was a thunder clap of explosive noise and light, and suddenly the previously empty space was empty no longer.

23 Terminators of multitude of patterns and modifications emerged from nothingness, 23 most dangerous and well armed warriors of Crimson Lords. They were a sight to behold, a rare sight of power that was rare in this dark age were a single Tactical Dreadnought Armor was an extremely valuable relic. Rukiel found himself admiring this show of military might, echoes of the crusade flashing in his mind.

None of the Terminators was as tall and had an aura of such dark glory as the being standing at the head of the formation. Towering over even his terminator guard, Kalron was true lord of Chaos, an avatar of mankind's thirst for war made manifest. His crimson cloak and massive sword, his helmetless face of a true warlord, his presence that commanded others to bow down or die.

Kalron started issuing orders from a stride, ordering his warriors and leading them forward. The Crimson Fists spit into combat squads, scattering along multitude of corridors and hallways. The White Scars of Khulain disappeared to the lower decks as a much more coherent force, unheeding of Kalron's presence.

Rukiel joined Kalron, following him and his bodyguard of ten Terminators down one of the main corridors. He pushed his way next to the tall warlord, just as the master of the crusade host addressed the two Dreadnoughts. "Bolron, Malkail, it is time for war! The Legion requires your might once more, I release you to the fields of battle to bring death to our enemies!"

Barlon continued to cry his madness as the Dreadnought spurned into motion and charged down one of the corridors, like a hound let loose from its leash. Malkail picked another direction much more aligned with the direction of attack set by his Lord, and disappeared from sight soon as well.

Kalron started leading his Terminators into the depths of the Starfort, Rukiel and Kerverax by his side and Mortet Guard behind them. Rukiel would stick to the nearly unstoppable force of eleven Terminators as far as he could, taking shelter behind their man-tank hulks untill the enemy would show itself.

"You don't wear a helmet when you go to war?" Rukiel asked from the master of the Crimson Lords, looking at the face of stone trough his own warhelm. He did not particularly appreciate the custom of going into battle without one, like many others champions of the Nine Legions did, especially from the bloodline of the VIth and IXth.

"You can't blink blood splatters away from your retinal lenses," Kalron simply replied.

* * *

They had fired maybe three dozen shells when the first signs of something being wrong emerged. The artillery fire of the invaders was raining down all around them, yet they kept on firing into the coming horde. But suddenly the gunner squeezing the trigger cried out.

Yuron lifted his gaze from the next shell he was to escort to the massive gun, wondering if the man had been hit by stray shot or shrapnel, but there was signs of neither.

The man let out a frightened scream and jumped from the gun. He looked around in in panic, his eyes wide with fear. He kept mumbling something incoherent, twitchingly taking steps into different directions before backing down.

Yuron had seen many soldiers suffering from different levels of shell shock in the mortal armies of the Ultramarines, but this did not look like a case of it. The man was not some half minded cultist but a harshly trained veteran of the slave militia of the XIIIth Legion. This situation, while hellish, was not enough to cause one to forget the fear of the punishment by the Legion overseers. No, this was something more, the man looked like he had just completely snapped, his sanity compromised by something. The look of horror on the man's face further emphasized this.

"Get back to your position and fire that gun!" The Decanus in charge bellowed as he lightly smacked the man on the shoulder.

The man recoiled from the hit, more from fear than the force of the impact. "They are coming for me!" he screamed from the top of his lungs, still looking around as if he was surrounded. "The Gray Men come for me!" then he jumped from the gun and descended down from the artillery platform, heading for the ramparts and towards the fortress city.

"Get back here soldier!" the Decanus yelled to no avail. Soon it did not matter, since the fleeming madman suddenly exploded as a Ultramarine sentry legionnaire across the wall blew him away with a single shot from his boltgun, a fate of all who attempted to abandon the walls without permission.

The Decanus cursed and turned back to the gun and its crew. "You are now the main gunner," he said to the loader woman next to Yuron. The woman nodded and moved to the firing mechanism, squeezing the heavy trigger. Relocating one of the loaders to also fire the gun did not slow them down much. The canon sang again, and the crew got back to their duty, the recent incident forgotten in midst of a combat situation.

But that did not last for long.

The woman recently assigned to fire the gun started screaming madly after a dozen of shots, looking around her and pointing with her hand. "The enemy is here!" she cried "The Gray Men!"

Yuron looked in the directions pointed by the woman, but saw nothing but ramparts and walls manned by the militia soldiers firing out at the enemy. Certainly no enemy and no gray men of any sort.

"Keep operating the gun!" the Decanus ordered, but the woman had lost the ability to think clearly and pushed herself against the edge of the platform, as if trying to escape by jumping. She never got the chance as the Decanus pulled forth his las pistol and shot her through the back of her head, her body going limp over the platform edge. The decanus turned to Yuron, pointing at him with his sidearm. "You are the main gunner now, get to it!"

Yuron stood immobile for a second, unwilling to adopt the duty that had seen the two previous gunners going insane.

The Decanus fired a warning shot into the air and pointed at Yuron with the piston again. "Now!"

Yuron moved to the gun, unwillingly clenching the trigger. The gun fired with a thundering sound.

"Good, now keep up the fire!" the Decanus said without lowering his gun.

It was at that moment a dreadful whistling sound became audible, far louder than any of the artillery raining around them. Yuron recognized the sound as a shell falling within extreme distance.

"Incoming!" Tolian screamed and threw himself down, Yuron following the example. Couple of seconds after the world exploded around him.

Yuron found himself laying on the wall amongst ruble, his vision swimming and his ears ringing. He spit blood clotted dust from his mouth. He was not sure what was happening around him. He was hurting all over, and blood was leaking from many gashes and bruises, but at least he was alive to feel the pain. He laid there for a while before pushing himself to sit up.

The artillery platform he had operated was gone, half of it simply not there and the rest of it was simply rubble and twisted metal. The rampart he was sitting on was pocked with craters of similar artillery strikes, and bodies in various states of wholeness were scattered here and there. There was shouting all around him, but he could not decipher the meaning from them. Was the enemy past the walls already? Were they coming to kill him? He needed to escape.

Yuron struggled to stand but pulled himself up to shaking legs. He turned towards the city, seeking a way down from the walls. His gaze happened to fall on a body not far from him.

It was the body of an artillery gunner, that was clear but the identity of the torn face down lying body was a mystery. But the body itself was not what had catched Yuron's eye. There was small creature on top of the body, a void black avian creature the size of the corpse's head. A raven, pecking at the fresh carrion in its feet.

Then the bird, the tiny, insignificant bird, opened its beak wide and devoured the body whole. There were sickening sounds of cracking bone and tearing meat. Yuron was not sure what exactly happened,and at first though his eye played tricks on him. It happened so fast. In one moment the body was there, and in the next it had vanished down the mouth of the black avian creature much smaller than the body had been, like the carrion had never been there in the first place.

And then the bird looked at him, looked right at Yuron with its beady obsidian eyes filled with something sinister, something malignant, something _evil,_ as if saying ' _you are next'_ to Yuron _._

Yuron turned and ran away towards the city as fast as he could, as all around him, the war continued to rage unabated.

* * *

 **I hope you liked this chapter and I will see you next time.**


	8. Chapter 8

**No Man's Storm**

 **Chapter 8**

* * *

 ** _"I'm not sick i'm twisted. Sick makes it sound like there's a cure."_**

 **-Unknown**

The first Ultramarine Rukiel killed had been called Tyriel Covardus. Rukiel knew this because he used the following pause in the fighting to defile the corpse and eat its progenoid glands, the faint memories of the dead transhuman flashing before his mind's eyes like a holo recording he had not interest in watching. Normally geneseed was a resource he would not have wasted no matter the bloodline, but he allowed himself this special indulgence this one time, since he was probably not the one who would be the first to collect Guilliman's genetic legacy from the bodies of his sons after the starfort had been claimed by the Crusade Host.

Tyriel's left hand, laying at Rukiel's feet, was a grotesque combination of flesh and metal where his hand had morphed and fused with his gun, permanently joining him with his weapon. Rukiel could not tell if it was a deliberate crafting of flesh and metal or a whimsical mutation caused by the power of the Warp. It was the law of life in the great Warpstorms that boons of the warp touched technology were a necessity for everyone, but Rukiel himself preferred the cold working of untwisted technology when it came to his personal weapon. Not because be found the touch of the Warp distasteful, he and his Legion was far beyond form having such thoughts, but simply because he valued reliability in his tools of war.

Technology worked with the strict laws of the materium. A piece of tech either worked or it did not work, it was 1 or 0 as a tech adept might have put it. Tools of the Warp were different. They probably worked, but there was never certainty how well they worked, or if they worked in the way one wished. Rukiel lifted his power spear. _Shadower_ worked with the cold might of technology, and it had proven itself far better than the gunmorph of the corpse at his feet. Let the Spawn armies and Ultramarines drown their bodies and weapons in the Ruinous Powers, let everything around Rukiel feel the touch of the Dark Ocean, let his soul be completely one with the darkness of the Warp, but Rukiel preferred to have reliable cold adamantium in his hands. A meter long monomolecular spear tip with a disruption field never lost its favor with the whims of the Empyrean.

He had lost two Spawn Primes of the Mortet Guard in the first confrontation. An Ultramarine squad of a dozen Astartes had been holding a major killzone corridor with heavy weapons, blocking the way from all but the most determined of assaults. Fortunately ten Crimson First termininators lead by Kalron thirsting for the blood of the XIIIth Legion scum had proven to be that kind of assault. The Ultramarines had all died to a man in the slaughter, and now the section of the corridor end around Rukiel was littered with bloody torn corpse encased in shredded blue battleplate. All the Terminators were still standing in peak condition, and were craving for more.

Rukiel moved his attention from the corpses as he wiped the blood from his mouth and reattached his helmet. He blink clicked the tactical layout into his view and absorbed the information transmitted by his armor directly to his mind. It was chaotic stage of war aboard the starfort, but that was to be expected. In voidship boarding actions it was usually easy to designate the bridge and few other vital targets as the determining factors of the assault, but a starfort was different. It was larger than the largest of battle barges many times over, and it could not be disabled by capturing the bridge or a engineerium. It was not a craft that needed constant command and guidance to remain functional and deadly, it could not be decapitated. It was like a hive city in space. You had to control vast portions of it to claim it as your domain, and it was more about which side killed the other side sufficiently to hold the fort. Two armies could clash inside the fort for days or weeks without anyone truly controlling it, like two side holding two sides of a city. The only way to win was to annihilate the enemy from on board. And that was what the Crusade Host was going to do.

"I am leading my men up towards the main transport shafts of this quadrant," Rukiel heard Kalron vox to him from the other end of the corridor where he was already moving onwards. "Minimal changes from the primary battle plan. The rest of my squads are securing our flanks, all south side sections ten levels above and below us are cleansed of effective enemy resistance. North side is still heavily engaged with the enemy but it seems the Ultramarines are pulling out. Once the quadrant is fully in our hold and flanks secured, we will converge en mass and begin the spear thrust towards the core sections. I expect to see you there when we start the push."

"I will be there, Lord Kalron," Rukiel voxed back as he picked a diverging corridor and lead his squad down tit. When the forces of the Crusade Host gathered together to clash with the inevitable counter attack of the Ultramarines, he would of course be there. It was better not to make Kalron disappointed in his usefulness at this part of the war. The victory was right within their reach, he could feel it. The Ultramarines would fall.

* * *

The teeth of Skaron's chainaxe grinded the blue ceramite but failed to penetrate. Skaron growled as his weapon slid off the pauldron decorated with with the foul Ultima in a shower of sparks. The two warriors passed each other and turned immediately for another confrontation.

The Ultramarine lashed with his chainsword, but Sakron parried the blow and proceeded to drive his fist into the face grill of the blue clad Astartes, buckling the helmet and sending the bastard rocking back. Skaron did not allow the Ultramarine time to recover but rushed forward in a circling move, cutting the exposed areas behind the groin plates of the the blue armor plate, practically severing the legs. The Ultramarine fell face forward on the ground, but Skaron immediately grabbed hold of his ruined helmet and pulled him back. He twisted the head of the Ultramarine upwards to fully reveal the throat while the blue clad Marine clawed at his battle plate, cursing violently. Skaron brought his chainaxe in front of the Ultramarine and ran the grinding teeth along the throat, decapitating the foul son of Guilliman. The headless corpse fell to the ground, leaving the blue helmet in Skaron's hand with its owner still inside it.

All hell was loose around Skaron. The fortress city or Pelimar was a huge battlefield, with thousands of individual engagements of all sizes happening all around. It was a war between two sides with the blessings for the Gods, so both sides had no shortage of fighters totally ignoring any attempt at organized warfare in the already chaotic conflict. This resulted in vague larger battlefronts and numerous smaller ones simply trashing it out until the opponent was dead, after which it was time to find more to kill. Many of those who waged war in the Hell's Iris did it just because they wanted to wage war, against the Ultramarines or just somebody, not caring who they fought as long as they got to fight _someone._

Around Skaron was one of these larger confrontations. Thousands of fighters from both sides, Astartes, cultist, mutants and battle automata, all shooting and hacking at each other in the sea of rubble that had once been a large transportation nexus. It brought back to Skaron those rare picture depictions he had seen while raiding Imperial worlds, grand paintings of large battles created from the interpretation of the mortal artist's mind. Such sights of war as seen in the pictures were truly rare because of the simple pragmatism and reality of war, but here he was, standing in the middle of such a scene with killing happening in every direction from him.

His squad was a small formation in the greater violence, an island amidst the storm of war. Lord Lharkus was nowhere to be seen, though Skaron was sure the lord was still alive. The Spawn Marine squads had been released against the enemy, and where assaulting the enemy all around, taking advantage of the chaotic nature of war where Astartes, even cloned ones, excelled. War was chaos, as the honored lord said. Victory often went to the one who could harness and rule the chaos.

Skaron spotted another Ultramarine warrior close by among the sea of lesser beings making up the bulk of the slaughter. The scion of cursed Ultarmar was surrounded by red and gunmetal armored soldiers of Kalron's Blood Korps, who were putting up a commendable resistance against an enemy that completely outclassed them.

They were a hard bred group these Blood Korps. They were not madly hurling themselves against the Marine like enemy cultists charged Skaron. After couple of seconds of observation as Sakorn approached the Ultramarine, Skaron realized the Blood Korps had clearly received some sort of training on how to fight Astartes. The Blood Korps soldier were trying to surround the Marine and aimed for the weak spots of the armor, trying to keep the Marine's back always open to fire or stabbing. Lord Kalron really knew how to raise an army. The Blood Korps were dying in droves, the ground was littered with their running blood, but they were taking down the Ultramarine scum.

Skaron actually did not reach them before the enemy Marine was brought down. Four Blood Korps soldiers charged the back of the Marine, howling warcries to the Blood God. They aimed and thrusted their gun affixed bayonets with all their strength into the backside of the Marine's knee joints. The second the Ultramarine fell he was swarmed by ten Korpsmen who began shooting and stabbing into his joints and weakened parts of the armor.

The Ultaramrine was dead when Skaron reached the corpse, so Skaron started looking for and picked a new target for himself. There were plenty of the enemy to go around, Skaron though as he aimed his bolt pistol.

* * *

Yuron was running, then he was hiding, and then he was running again, once he realized he could not hide for long in a single location. He had scavenged an auto rifle from a dead cultist, he was not sure from which side, and then he had been avoiding combat as much as he could.

The fortress city of Pelimar was on fire, and a sounds of war were a constant. Artillery was raining down, gunfire was never further than couple of city block or structural levels, and the cries of men and women dying was only cut off by the overwhelming sound of greater destruction. There were areas of the city where there was no fighting, but those were rare and in constant flux as the enemy forces advanced, retreated or were wiped out.

Yuron was now technically behind the enemy lines, as much as such lines could be drawn.

He was hiding in the towering ruins of a structure which original purpose he could not decipher from the ruble. The wide road next to the road was currently being ground by the tracks of enemy armored transports moving up towards the center of the city.

Thousand of enemy infantry was traveling beside the vehicles, their gunmetal helmets that were cast to have a iron skull mask were constantly surveying their surroundings, and Yuron was keeping his head down as much as he could. They would not mistake the uniform of the Ultramarine defense militia he wore.

After sometime the sounds of the armored transports faded away, and Yuron had enough courage to emerge from his hiding place. He looked both ways down the street before jumping over the ruble to cross it. The road was full of corpses, most of them crushed by vehicle tracks or violently pushed out of the way. Almost half of the road was the color of dirty blood, pooling into impact craters to form red ponds. Yuron tried not to care about them. He had other things to worry about.

The gray man was after him. He glimpsed over his shoulder, seeing the singular humanoid shape on his left down the road. It had been chasing him ever since he had fled the walls. He saw it wherever he went, not always behind him either. The gray man would could appear from any direction no matter how he ran, but it was always coming for him, its empty eyes looking for Yuron tirelessly, its gray form relentlessly pursuing him. He had tried to shoot the thing, but it seemed invulnerable to weapon fire. The sight of the thing filled filled Yuron with such horror, such strange and unknown horror. He did not want to be caught by the thing, he did not want to find out what happened when it reached him.

Suddenly there was a familiar whistling sound in the air, the sound Yuron knew all too well, and he threw himself onto the road dirty with blood. The artillery shell was falling close, very close, he could feel it. He grabbed a corpse of a dead cultist and pulled it next to him, seeking some cover from the dead flesh. He squinted his eyes shut and prayed to the Great Gods for his life.

The shell hit, rocked the world around him, and Yuron screamed. He could feel sudden and agonizing pain, and as he squirmed on the ground he spotted his leg had suffered a fragment wound. His gray blue uniform was turning black by a small expanding pool of blood in his knee. It hurted like hell, the pain was horrendous, and for a moment Yuron could do nothing but squirm and screaming on the road.

He eventually recovered from the moment of disorder and stopped screaming. With tears and sweat running down his face, he lifted his upper body up to look at his leg more closely. He tried to stand with it, but the pain was beyond imagination. He gave up standing and looked down the road in fear. The gray man was still there, walking ever closer and closer.

Yuron started dragging himself along the road away from the gray apparition haunting him. He could not walk so he crawled, as fast as his pained leg would allow him. He frantically, desperately tried to get away from it. He had to get way he had to get way he had to get away he had to get way…

The sound of ravens startled him. He almost stopped as the avian sounds started to get louder and more frequent. He realised suddenly that he was able to hear them over the sound of war, the sound that had grow somewhat distant, quieter. He hoped it was because his ears were damaged by the impact of the artillery shell and not because of the ravens. The choir of ugly sounds grew ever greater. Then Yuron looked up.

The structures towering around him were filled with black birds. Hundreds of them. They were observing Young from the heights, letting out a cries that made him sick. They just stood there, staring, letting out their ugly noises that eventually drowned out all the other sounds from the world.

Until Yuron heard the thing. It was a silent voice, echoing from down the road where he was crawling from. It was getting louder, steadily building volume as it grew closer. With his body shaking, his teeth ringing against each other, Yuron turned around to look.

The gray man was gone. There was no sight of it. But it had not been the cause of the noise. Five humanoid shapes were traveling along the road towards him, followed by something huge. Yuron whimpered in fear as he recognized the the distinct outline of Astartes warriors. He could feel his dread getting worse. He could not move from the road fast enough, so he just laid there, hoping he could hide among the bodies. He could only look with squinted eye as the black shapes approached.

The four things that were taking point were transhuman warrior clad in void black armor. They carried massive boltguns in their armored hands and were sweeping the sides of the road with their gaze. But they were nothing compared to the being walking in their tracks.

The shape looked like an Astartes, very similar to the four other genehanced warrior walking ahead of him, except for the very distinctive dark cloak and the avian mask with wide black lenses. But the feeling Yuron got from the being made his blood freeze.

The aura of sheer wrongness and suffering and cold and pain and darkness and evil radiating from the warrior was beyond anything Yuron had ever felt before. He had stood in the presence of his Ultramarine overseers before, but this was way beyond anything he had felt before his lords. There was this psychological reaction he felt when facing an Ultramarine who was so dangerous and could kill him without effort should he offer a reason, but the feeling he got from the bird masked being seemed to tear into his very soul.

There was a large vehicle of some sort following the five Astartes. It was larger than a Rhino transports in bulk, and it was not letting out any engine sounds, it simple let out the noise of large wheels rolling against the road. As it got closer, Yuron noticed it looked like a huge wagon. A wagon that was made of bones infused and melted together. Its bony white flanks were a surface made out of skeletal body parts of all kinds, coming together to form the wagon. After it got even more closer Yuron could see the large black veins traveling along the bones, snaking around and pumping something inside them.

When the warriors were only few dozen of meters from Yuron, he noticed the things coming out of the wagon's top. Like spidery limbs, white appendages with sharp bony spikes sprouted from the wagon and spread over the sides. Yuron realized with horror they were impaling bodies on the road and lifting them into the wagon.

That was when the first Astartes warrior noticed Yuron. Maybe it heard the frantic beating of his heart, maybe it smelled him. It locked its black eye lenses with him and immediately moved towards him. And it started changing. Yuron let out a scream as the warrior coming for him twisted and warped, his armor flowing like wax around it to accommodate its changing form. Yuron realized as he watched it was not power armor at all, it was the shell of the warrior, a living part of it. Giant talons grew from the fingers not holding the boltgun, the stature of the thing twisted and its helmet became a visage of a terrifying beast. It looked like the possessed warriors of the Ultramarine masters Yuron has seen transforming, but this thing was coming for him.

Yuron cried out as he was lifted from the ground by the claws. He expected the thing to rip him apart immediately, but such was not the case. He was instead brought face to face with the bird masked Astartes.

Yuron looked into those circular black eye lenses, looked at what ever was watching him from behind them, and he felt horror. He could actually feel something eroding and breaking inside his mind, could feel how the Astartes before him affected him with mere presence. He could feel his soul bleed and scream in a way his suddenly numb mouth could not.

Then the white spike of the wagon came down and pierced his stomach. Yuron did not even cry out as he was ran through by the white spider limb. He simply allowed the thing lacerate him. Allowed it to lift him up and above the wagon. Allowed it to release him to fall into the giant sharp teethed black maw that awaited him in the wagon of bone.

* * *

 **I hope you liked this chapter and I will see you next time.**


	9. Chapter 9

**No Man's Storm**

 **Chapter 9**

* * *

 ** _"Let loose the horror and become one with it, welcome it into your blood. For this galaxy has place left only for abominations and monsters."_**

 **-Recovered heretical writings of the cult of the Raven, author unknown.**

* * *

When the Ultramarine counter attack came, it came in force. The lord of Hell's Iris clearly was not going to relinquish his hold of the starfort without a fight, as was expected, and what a fight it was brewing up to be.

The most forward elements, those Astartes squads that had strayed too far from the rest of the Crusade Host elements, were obliterated in the depths of the the starfort, survivors crawling back to bring warning to the rest of Kalron's forces. It was clear the Ultramarines were not going to wait for the enemy to come to them : they were striking back while the Host was still fresh out of their breach into the starfort.

Kalron was calling those loyal to him to his side, and the Crusade Host answered. All the squads not responsible for stopping flaking attempts were regrouping around the strong leader that was the Champion of the Blood God. There was no way to retreat from the starfort, and the Crusade Host knew this. Their only chance was to break the Ultramarines before they broke the elite of the Host. Kalron was going to lead them to victory or they would all die.

Rukiel took in the chamber around him. Astartes from many different Legions were here, spiraling around Kalron. They were taking cover on the confines of the massive vehicle storage bay, arranging their forces for the storm to come, or conversing with other leaders of other warbands. It was quite a force gathered there, Rukiel did not believe he had ever seen so many Terminators in one place. Champions and elite squads were eager to fight, and the handful of dreadnoughts finalized the impressive sight. This was a force that could kill star systems and overrun sectors. Unfortunately the force knocking on the chamber's jammed doors was also one.

"This is it," Savardin said from next to Rukiel. "We kill what comes through those doors and we can declare victory for the Crusade Host. Try not to kill the leader, Kalron wants to claim that skull himself." Savardin held up his thunder hammer with both gauntlets. "Let's kill these bastards."

"Victorus aut mortis," Rukiel replied as he formed a feral grin under his helmet.

There was a moment of tension filled stillness as the doors of the sanctum were pounded with impotent attempts to break through. Then those fell silent, like whatever had been on the other side was making way. All the guns of the Crusade Host were leveled at the large cargo bay door.

With a sudden screech of tortured metal being violently smashed apart, an ancient Contemptor Dreadnought in blue and gold, blighted heavily with the corruption of the Warp, came crashing through the door, roaring madly as it barreled forward. Weapon fire instantly responded to its sudden appearance, but most of the weapons had no effect on its thick armor. Only the heaviest of fire had any visible effect, yet it charged on. It reached the vanguard of the Crusade Host with a frightening speed and started killing.

Behind the dreadnought came a swarm of the foul ilk of Guilliman. Corrupted Astartes of a hundred kind, armed to the teeth and roaring for battle. The Crusade Host answered the call for confrontation, and in the next moment the chamber was filled with volatile exchange of fire and violent melee.

The scions of Ruin bled each other generously that day, and the dark masters of the Warp laughed at the bloodshed.

* * *

Skaron looked upon the duel with a grin not completely without amusement. In the middle of a ring consisting of Spawn Marines and true Astartes of the Crusade Host, a fight to the death was taking place. It was a nice show of entertainment while the Siege was in a deadlock for the moment.

In the ring, facing each other, were two transhuman figures clad in poor quality armor, one black, the other blue. One was a Spawn Marine, one picked at random by Skaron from the warband's ranks. The other was another spawn of an attempt to create a cheaper legionnaire, one of the so called Evocatii of the Ultramarines, captured in the war by the Crusade Host. Two shadows of Astartes, thrown into a pit fight without weapons to fight to the death for the entertainment of the onlookers. It was interesting to see which would prevail, a corrupted clone or a diluted shell.

It became clear the Spawn Marine was superior of the two. After a long while of beating and clashing, the black clad clone grabbed the head of the Evocatii and ripped its jaw off. The wounded thing was send to the ground, and the Spawn finished the job by crushing the jawless head to a pulp with its feet. The Crusade Host around let out a few cheers and soon the circle started to disperse. Skaron did not spare the victorious Spawn Marine another glance, directing his attention back to the massive walls towering over them.

The main fortress of Pelimar stood in front of the Crusade Host forces surrounding it, high walls protected from artillery by a Void shield yet to be breached. The armies that had killed their way through the city were resting by the walls, unable to proceed forward, waiting for the siege engines to catch up with the front lines so they could enter the main fortress. The massive gate, tall enough for a titan to walk trough, was standing adamantly on their way, beyond the capability to be broken by the current front of the Host.

Therefore, they waited. There was minimal fire coming from the walls due to the barrier of the Void shield, allowing the Crusade Host a moment of respite in the open space around the fortress. New arrivals were joining them every hour, antire warbands, cultist hordes and Blood Korps battalions adding to the tide waiting to break through the gate. Some specially equipped troops, like Astartes warbands with jump pack squads, were launching attacks against the top of the wall, but they were too few in number to cause any real damage, merely launching petty skirmished to spend the time. Skaron though it would take a long while before they had enough siege elements to continue the siege. That was before the Apothecary arrived.

Skaron noticed the dark artisan of the XIXth Legion almost immediately, the wave of commotion caused by the dark figure and his strange wagon of bone was rather attention catching. The wagon stopped on the edge of the city where it had emerged from, opposite to the grand walls looming beyond the sea of Crusade Host forces. Lord Lharkus moved towards the Apothecary, and Skaron moved to accompany him, pulling his squad and a handful of Spawn Marines with him.

Lord Lharkus discussed something with the apothecary, and soon returned to Skaron who was waiting patiently on the sidelines. His last encounter with the Apothecary had caused him to learn a lot of patience.

"What is the Apothecary doing here?" Skaron asked as Lharkus joined him again.

The Pureblood simply stared at the wagon and folded his hands. "Just wait and see."

Skaron looked at the Pureblood before returning his attention back to the wagon. Then he waited.

It started slowly. At first it was just a disturbed feeling. Then the light of Hell's Iris started feeling colder. The light always felt colder in the presence of the Purebloods, but this was beyond that. It was as if the day-night cycle of the planet had suddenly been accelerated, and it was rapidly approaching evening as far as one existed in a Warp Storm. Skaron could feel the unease emanating from the mortal elements of the Crusade Host and saw many of them making swift distance to the wagon and its master.

That is when the sounds started. Unlike the cold and the darkness, the noise did not come slowly. It pierced the night, for it seemed now more night than day, and was like a blade of ice into the heart, mind and soul of Skaron.

It was not a roar, the sound that the _thing_ rising from the wagon let out. Based on _its_ size, a roar like some huge predator of a death world would have been fitting. The sound that _it_ released was however not easily described by Skaron. There simply did not exist words in mortal tongue to describe it. If Skaron had to give an approximation of a description, he would have called it a shriek made of a thousand screams.

The _thing_ rising from the wagon was hard to look at. It was physically hard to do, and Skaron could not help himself from looking away. It was not that the sight was something he did not want to witness, he simply could not look at the thing straight, his eyes rebelling at forcing him to avert them. The little he was able to capture of the massive thing was bodies. A glance at it had seemed like a lots and lots of bodies.

 _It_ let out those indescribable cries as it rose high and started making its way towards the walls. Everything standing before it and the high gate vacated the way as fast as they could. The thing slumbered forward, its steps shaking the earth, yet letting no stomping sounds. Skaron could observed it only barely, but he was able to see it smashing itself against the gate of the fortress. Skaron could hear the merciless pounding as the thing tore at the massive doors, forcefully ripping itself an entry. The sound of breaking metal was horribly loud as Skaron tried to watch the thing tearing apart the gates the Crusade Host had been unable to break so far.

The doors gave in after a while of punishment. They opened as cracked gates opening a hole into the fortress of Pelimar. The way was open at last.

That was when the brutal machine like screech filled the air. The thing, the monstrous thing that the Apothecary had crafted into being, exploded. It vanished from existence, its aura of darkness, cold and sensory disruption suddenly vanishing. Skaron could see clearly again, and there was not sight go the thing. Only bodies flying around or laying before the gates, plain regular bodies. But beyond the gate…

The ground was shaking again, but this time there were stomping sounds. Skaron could only watch. Through the gate, though the massive broken doors high enough for a Titan to walk though, walked a Titan. The cries of its warhorn smashed against the Crusade Host that was quickly starting to react to the appearance of a god machine from the fortress.

"A titan!" Skaron heard someone yell as he turned around and started moving. "Call our Warhounds! They have a Titan!"

" _Run_ ," Skaron spat into his squad vox.

That was when the massive guns of the Reaver Titan started booming. Skaron saw swathes of the Crusade Host elements gathered by the walls obliterated, warbands crushed, Blood Korps companies vanishing into the air in a blink of an eye. There was no standing against this kind of power. So Skaron ran. He ran as fast as he could, retreating from the destruction behind him, fleeing from the unleashed wrath of the god machine that was releasing hell of its merciless guns upon them.

* * *

Rukiel reeled back as a hail of random bolter fire from the chaos of the fight slammed against his pauldron, tearing at the white raven symbol. He still managed to correct his stance and dodge the Ultramarine champion coming for him with his power axe. The runt of Guilliman over reached because he saw Rukiel's sudden unexpected distraction, and so Rukiel punished him by slamming the shaft of his spear against the Ultramarine's faceplate, shattering on of the crimson lenses. This hit allowed Polryphon, Savardin's lieutenant, to ram his power sword through the Ultramarine's side and gut him is a shower of shredded armor.

Rukiel fixed his stance, looking out for more threats coming his way. The chaotic fighting was getting very brutal and personal, with Ultramarines and Crusade Hosts warriors tearing into each other all around the storage bay.

"Keep it up, we are killing them!" Savardin growled as he used his thunder hammer to smash down a heavily mutated Ultaramrine with almost contemptuous ease. "Machromance, makes us some room to charge!"

A figure stepped past Rukiel and Savardin, clad in the black of a Legion Pureblood. He wielded a staff with an eight pointed crest, directed at the enemy. The sorcerer of Savardin's warband challenged a sphere of dark light towards the Ultramarines, guiding its serpentine movements with his potent psychic powers, making it bounce among the Ultramarines like a ball lightning. It did not damage the armor it touched, but the Astartes that were hit by it fell in silent lifelessness. Rukiel righted himself, preparing to lead his Mortet Guard into another charge over the clue clad corpses piling high.

It was at that moment Rukiel senses the sudden shift in the air, the smell of ozone suddenly becoming extremely invading through the smell of blood. He could feel the electrifying in the of the air, charging up towards a release. He had just enough time to yell out a warning before the thunder clap. "Incoming teleportation strike!"

The thunder roared and suddenly seven Terminators in blue and gold emerged right into the flank of the Raven Guard, weapons ready. Rukiel hurled himself behind two of his Spawn Primes as the combi bolters started firing. The two members of the Mortet Guard were ripped apart by the hail of bolts, but they adamantly stood in front of Rukiel, shielding their lord from annihilation.

Polryphon died in an instant. He had been standing right before the Ultramarine barrage, and his body exploded into black armor fragments and gore. From his Pureblood body surged forth a black cloud of Unkind, instantly falling upon the Ultramarines. The dark Neverborn bought Rukiel and other Reven Guards still standing the opening they needed.

"On them!" Savarding roared, charging to smash down the lead Terminator that was occupied by the dark sins made manifest released by the death of his second in command. The other Pureblood's and Spawn Marines were quick to follow, engaging the blue Terminators in brutal counter attack.

Rukiel rammed _Shadower_ through an old Tartaros's pattern armor's stomach coils, but was quickly forced to pull back as the hit failed to kill the power maul carrying walking tank pressing on him.

For a moment it seemed like the Terminators might crush the Raven Guard warriors, but the chance for victory was quickly snatched away from the blue and gold scum as a squad of Imperial Fist terminators rushed their flak in turn, eager to prove themselves against the elite enemy that had suddenly appeared in their vicinity. Ultramarine Terminators were fierce, but they did not match the bloodthirsty monsters that the Crimson First terminators were. Rukiel wondered if these blue platted relic armors would receive a yellow coat when the battle was over and they were claimed from the broken bodies of the Ultramarines.

It was at that moment that Rukiel heard a mad cry of battle lust, and his dark connection with the Warp told him to get away without him even realizing what the threat was. He ignited his jump pack almost on instinct, raising himself above the slaughter as much was possible in the storage bay. Just in time for him to get away from the rampaging Ultramarine Contemptor Dreadnought that came crashing into the Raven Guard Marines.

Savardin was not as lucky. Rukiel cried out his name as the lord of the Onyx Sons turned, but he was not fast enough to evade his doom. The Contemptor smashed its way to the chaos lord, clenched both it's power talons around Savardin's smaller frame and ripped him in two in a second. The death of Savardin was instant, and his broken body quickly exploded to release vengeance of the Unkind on those surrounding his death scene, especially on the Ultramarine Dreadnought. The Unkind spirits spawned by Savardin's death were a lot more numerous than Polryphon's death, and they tied up the raging Contemptor rather well. It allowed the yellow twin Dreadnoughts of Bolron and Malkail to converge on the Ultramarine warmachine. The three massive entombed warriors crashed together, starting to beat each other with gigantic force.

Rukiel used the moment to launch himself towards Savardin's body. He grabbed a piece of armor and meat that had once been Savardin's right hand and pulled back from the way of the thundering Dreadnought giants. He clenched the bloody limp in his grasp and cried into the vox. "Kerverax, give me a capsule from the chain!"

Kerverax disengaged from the fighting, moving to his brother. He grabbed one of the empty capsules hanging from his neck in the Carrion Chain and handed it to Rukiel.

Rukiel took the capsule without a word and filled it with meat and blood from Savardin. His brother's remains and chance for revival secured, Rukiel dropped the bloody hand and mag locked the capsule to his belt.

He had to ignite his jump pack again to get away from the Dreadnought that crashed onto right where he had been a moment ago. The Ultramarine Contemptor smashed Bolron down and then ripped apart the legs of the Crimson Lords Dreadnought. The roaring yellow warmachine kept still clawing at the Contemptor with its power claws, heavily damaging one of the knee joints of the taller machine. That was when Malkail came from behind the Ultramarine, smashed in down, and rammed its chainfist right trough the head of the Contemptor. After the destruction of the head, Malkail proceeded to saw open the hull of the Contemptor all the way to the sarcophagus. Malkail tore it open and proceeded to obliterate the half living corpse inside the Contemptor, finally bringing the Ultramarine warmachine to a halt.

Rukiel did not have time to think about that, for the whole storage bay suddenly shook from a gigantic impact, and suddenly Rukiel found himself hurled onto a chaotic flight projectory just as he had been about to touch the floor of the chamber against after his jump pack flight. His senses were filled with silence and a storm of light and debris impacts, and when he finally got his bearings, he found himself drifting in the cold void, looking upon all of Hell's Iris in the cold and silence of space.

* * *

 **The Sorcerer Machromance is named after an Aspiring Sorcerer player from Eternal Crusade game, historically the only player to have ever given ammo to my Havoc so I could continue mowing down loyalist dogs.**

 **I hope you liked this chapter and I will see you next time.**


	10. Chapter 10

**No Man's Storm**

 **Chapter 10**

* * *

 _ **"The goal of all life is death"**_

 **-Sigmund Freud**

* * *

Rukiel drifted in the void, the blackness around him disturbed by the flashes of weapon fire from ships and the baleful unlight of the Mealstrom. He looked around, taking in his surroundings, coming to terms with what just happened. Suddenly something hit him and Rukiel could feel something grabbing on to him. He glanced down and saw an Ultramarine warrior hanging from his legs, a jagged combat blade in his hand.

Rukiel let out a boost from his jump pack to disorientate the Ultramarine for just a moment, and then he sliced down with his power spear, cutting open the side of the Ultramarine's chest armor. The cut immediately started to vent air and blood, and if not for the silence of the void, Rukiel believed he would have heard the cursing of the dead Ultramarine. He kicked the blue clad warrior off him, sending the flailing body adrift into the orbit of Hell's Iris.

All around, Rukiel could see other transhuman shapes vented into space. Both warriors of the Crusade Host and the Ultramarine scum. Many of them were clearly bodies, either they had been one when they had been sucked out of the starfort, or their armor had been damaged beyond being sealed from vacuum and they had perished then. Some of them were still moving, those were the living warriors in the same situation as Rukiel.

The starfort itself had been hit by some heavy weapon fire, Rukiel could see the scars in the metal that he had been dragged through. He had been in the air when the breach had happened, so he had not been allowed the chance of quickly mag-locking to the floor. Rukiel hoped Karlon had not died in the breach, for if he had, the Crusade Host would fall on each other for the chance to claim the biggest spoils faster than he could say "death to the False Emperor".

Rukiel considered for a moment how to proceed from here. He felt unwillingness to approach the starfort alone, to risk the massive ordnance flying in the void at it and the defense batteries scouring the void. One small breach of his armor would render him exposed to the cold mercy of the void. It was actually a surprise his armor's integrity had not already been compromised during his violent exit into the void. And even if he had somehow managed to get inside the starfort again, he would be alone on the enemy territory. No, let Kalron and the rest of the Crusade Host take the starfort, let them win the war. Rukiel would not waste this chance to avoid potentially fatal battle when he had been given such a good way out.

Rukiel scanned the space. He needed to get out of the fire-filled void. He spotted an escort ship of the Crusade Host relatively close by, and turned to face it, activating his jump pack. The void was easy to navigate, for he was a mere speck of dust amidst the giants of the voidships. It did not take long for him to spin himself around to land on the hull of the small scout ship.

He scoured the hull and finally found an airlock for him to enter through. The doors opened to allow him entry, and then closed behind him, sealing away the cold void for the benefit of pressurized life support systems of the vessel. Rukiel did not waste time, and started making his way towards the command bridge. The mortals who he came across fled at the sight of him, no one dearing to place himself on the path of a transhuman warrior who had suddenly appeared onboard the vessel. It did not take long for Rukiel to reach the large bulkhead of the bridge entrance.

There was an armed mortal defence squad standing guard, and they fearfully aimed their weapons at Rukiel as he approached. "I am a lord of the Crusade Host," Rukiel said without slowing down his approach. "Stand in my way and I will kill you all. Open the bridge doors."

Rukiel stopped before the doors, looking down at the mortals still hesitantly pointing their guns at him, though few had lowered their weapons, unsure what to do. "Did you not hear me?" Rukiel said, grabbing the nearest mortal and smashing him against the doors, breaking the man's bones and organs with a sickening sound. "Open the door."

The doors were opened hastily, and Rukiel walked to the command bridge. A man on the command dais whose head was half made of cybernetics turned to face Rukiel, and the organic parts of his face twisted in fear.

Rukiel stopped in front of the man, towering over him. "Are you in command?" he asked with a cold voice.

"I am the captain of this vessel… my lord," the captain managed to say, his voice clearly produced by something artificial in his throat.

"I am a lord of the Crusade Host, and I am temporarily commandeering this vessel for my use," Rukiel stated without chance for refusal. "You are to focus all your capabilities to transporting me to my destination. Do this and you may return to your normal operations. Am I clear?"

"Extremely, my lord." the captain said. What is this destination you wish us to deliver to?"

"Locate the Strike Cruise _Ars Moriendi_ and take a course towards it as soon as you locate it. I want on to that ship without delays," Rukiel delivered his demand. "Make it so."

"As you wish, my lord."

* * *

Skaron saw one of his squad member life runes go dark, and another of his brothers was gone, without him knowing who it was. The Titan's guns were merciless, killing anything within its line of fire with brutal ease. And it was fast, far faster than anything of such size had right to be. Skaron was not sure if it was because of some demonic assistance, or some dark techno heresy. Maybe Reaver-class Titans simple were so fast.

The Ultramarine counter attack from the east was making it impossible for squad Skaron to escape from the Titan's path. The Titan had a lot of targets, and it could not engage all of them at once, unlike the massive Ultramarine force that obliterated any elements of the retreating Crusade Host forces it came across. Hiding was also not an option, despite the generous number of structures all around. The Titan could sense hiding enemies by sensor or Warp means, and it easily leveled any structure in its path, killing anything within. The only way to stay alive was to keep running.

There was only three members of squad Skaron left in addition to himself. Only four brother left of a squad that had once numbered ten. The number would be getting even smaller if they did outrun the Titan.

"Enemy Predator, left flank!" Skaron heard the voice of Kar-III, and his helmet's warning marks instantly showed the new threat. Skaorn turned his head, seeing the blue main battle tank with rich decorations of ruin grind itself through collapsed debris, its weapons already turning towards his squad. The autocannon's barrel inched closer and closer, and Skaron could almost hear the autoloaders clicking and targeting systems focusing on him. He knew the moment the gun started leveling at them that the four of them would not all be living through the next ten seconds.

"Scatter..." Skaron rasped the order with anger, rather than yell it out in alarm. They needed to reach the building on the other side of the open ground, to get away from the tank's line of fire. There was no turning back, as the Titan's bellowing warhorn reminded from behind them.

The four man squad scattered, and almost instantly the Predator pulled to a halt and startted firing. Skaron could hear the high caliber round leaving the barrel with an exposing release, and then the sound of it impacting something long after the projectile had already hit. The Three first shots out of the barrel were misses. Skaron did not know by what margin, for none of them came even close to him. In the couple of heartbeats it took the gun to fire, he had already made almost half of the way to safety. He needed his heart to remain in one piece and functional just a couple of beats longer.

He registered the death of his brother before he heard the crash into the ground behind him. The life sign mark went dark, and with his sensitive hearing he could almost sense behind him that he had not time to turn to look. He had heard three high velocity projectiles hitting power armor in quick succession, one of them a glancing hit, two of them devastating blows that tore the warrior apart.

And then Skaron was out of the open ground, and the autocannon behind stopped firing. He had lost a brother, again. He could not see his living squad members. They had dived out of the firing line of the Predator behind different buildings and alleyways. He needed to regroup with them.

"Continue forward, seek regrouping routes and you go," Skaron said into the vox. "And watch out, that Predator was not alone."

As if the prove him right, the next blurt of noise from the squad vox a brief and harsh bark. "Enemy Astartes contact!" Skaron could hear the boltgun fire somewhere very close. A couple of seconds after another healthy life marker turned to mortis black. Skaron cursed violently, hoping he had something within reach for him to kill. "Continue forward!" he cried to his two remaining brothers.

There was a massive explosion as the Titan fired. The building next to Skaron vanished in a explosion of stone and metal, sending a huge dust cloud into the air. He was hurled from his feet, and he could feel stone raining on him, some impacts enough to trigger armor damage signifiers. It was all chaos and noise and hits.

It finally ended, and after a moment Skaron pulled himself up from under a pile of rock and dust. He was wounded, and his armor told him of multiple damage points. He righted himself, staggered for a second, and looked around him. He had no idea where his weapons were. They were buried beneath the house that was now all over the place rather than next to Skaron. And one more squad life signal was dead.

Skaron could hear the Titan getting closer. He started moving, not running, but limping. He took support from a massive rock that had once been a corner of a house, and called out with his vox. "Brother…" he called out for his only remaining squad member. "Brother..."

"I am here," came a reply from Delvos-VIII"

"Brother. Come to me," Scaron rasped.

"Should we not continue running?" Vel-II asked.

"I am wounded," Skaron said as something red tainted his right eye lense from inside his helmet.

"Acknowledged. I am coming for you," came the voice of Loranik-X. "What is your location?" Now it was Haron-VI.

"I am south of the Titan's weapon impact," Skaron wheezed. "Brother… come to me."

"I will be there in a moment." Goran-IV now.

"Borther…" Skaron cried out as he stumbled and had to push himself up again. "Brother."

It felt like forever for his last living brother to emerge from the middle of the wreckage, so long that Skaron was afraid he had lost all of his squad. But eventually he could hear noise, and he turned to see a black and white armored member of Squad Skaron coming towards him. "Brother…" Sakron said desperately. He threw himself in front of the other Astartes, grabbing hold of the power armor the same color as his own.

"I…" Skaron rapsed. "Brother… Remove your helmet. I must see your face…"

"What?" Kar-III asked.

"Just obey!" Skaron pleaded. He could feel the ground tremors, could hear the warhorn growing louder. "I must know… I must see, Brother…"

The other warrior was unmoving and silent, so Skaron pulled himself up and leaned forward. He placed his gauntlets around the helmet of his brother. The Astartes remained immobile. The warhorn let out a horrible roar. Something exploded somewhere close by.

Skaron clasped around the neck seals and started working to disengage the helmet. A massive shadow fell over him and his brother.

The black helmet fell to the ground next to Skaron. It rolled aside, discarded. There was one final gigantic foot depth. Just before the Reaver fired and obliterated Skaron, he watched upon the figure standing in front of him, and he saw. He saw just what had been hidden under the helmet.

* * *

Rukiel exited the the ramshackle shuttle he had taken from the escort and finally was on board proper Legion ship again. His ship.

The way to the command bridge seemed to take far less time than normally, which was probably thanks to the storm of thoughts racing in Rukiel's head. He entered the bridge, stepping through the door guarded by the two loyal brain dead Spawn Marines he kept around for sentimentality, and sat down on his command throne without saying a word. The shipmaster kept his distance, allowing his lord room to think. He knew Rukiel would call if he need something.

Rukiel reached up and disengaged his helmet, laying it on the arm of the command throne. Similarly he set his power spear to rest against his throne, before pulling a small capsule from his belt to under his eyes. The tiny container was filled with meat and blood, and he rolled it in his hand as he thought.

Savardin was dead. Rukiel was holding the flesh of his dead Legion brother in his hands. He was gone. How did this change things?

Rukiel did not know how long he sat there, thinking upon the the small piece of the carrion chain. His consideration was only broken when the ship master informed him of an incoming transmission.

"From the _Dark Harbinger_?" Rukiel asked, making a guess of the call's origin before it was revealed to him.

"Yes, my lord. They have disengaged from the void war and are on course towards us. They are requesting a direct link with you," the shipmaster confirmed the suspicion.

"Put it through," Rukiel said with an emotionless tone, laying his hand holding the capsule to rest on the arm of his throne by his helmet.

It did not take a long for the hololithic projection to appear before him, and he was greeted with a vision of another Legion Pureblood, also sitting upon a command throne. Rukiel nodded to the lieutenant of late Savardin. "Voraks," he greeted with a cold tone.

"Rukiel," answered the Astartes currently commanding the _Dark Harbinger._ "I assume you can guess why we are talking?"

"I do." Rukiel said. He knew this was a strong possibility from the moment he returned from the void. "Savardin is dead." He was sure Voraks already knew.

"Yes. Mechromance informed me of the demise of my lord at the hands of the enemy," Voraks confirmed. The sorcerer had probably used Warp to inform Voraks the second Savardin fell. "He also told me you harvested his carrion flesh."

"I did." Rukiel admitted. "It is here with me, safe and secure." Rukiel demonstrated by lifting the capsule he was holding between his ceramite clad fingers.

"I see. I would like you to return our lord's remains to the Onyx Sons. The rest of our lord's body was lost because of the incident onboard the spacefort."

Rukiel had assumed as much. The incident that had hurled him out into the void had probably taken all the bodies as well. This meant Rukiel was holding in his hand the only way to resurrect Savardin.

"I am on my way to retrieve my lord's flesh personally. Please lower your shields and prepare from my arrival via teleportation. If you refuse to lower your shield, my ship will be forced to lower them by opening fire," Voraks stated his intent.

"I understand." Rukiel said as his hand moved a bit closer to his spear. The link cut off without further pleasantries. He knew he had no choice. The _Dark Harbinger_ vastly overpowered the _Ars Moriendi_. Not lowering the shield would have been pointless, as Rukiel's ship would not have been capable of mounting much resistance in any case. A single full broadside from an Astartes Battle Barge would probably the collapse the shields already not in the best possible condition.

Rukiel raised from his throne, _Shadower_ in in hand, what was left of Savardin in the other. "Ship master, lower the void shielding," Rukiel said as he stood on the command dias. The mortal man looked strangely as Rukiel but proceeded to relay the order. "And tell every Spawn Marine unit on board to prepare for battle and head for the command bridge immediately. All other personal battle stations, and prepare to be boarded."

Rukiel moved his gaze to the dataport displaying the distance of the Battle Barge. His forces would not have enough time to be ready, but he gave to order anyway. He needed to be very careful with his next move. For now he had no choice but to wait.

When the teleportation thunder clap happened, Rukiel was already standing behind his command throne, looking towards the back of the command deck and the group of black armored warriors that had suddenly appeared on his ship.

Voraks stood clad in pristine black armor, his face hidden by an ornate helmet with silvery wings cresting it. Around him stood ten Spawn Marines, also clad in full Astartes power armor and wielding bolters and chain weapons. The bolters were pointing at Rukiel.

"Voraks…" Rukiel snarled.

The other Pureblooded son of the Ravenord lifted his empty hand. "Savardin's flesh, if you would." he said.

Rukiel lifted the capsule in his hands, out of any other choice. Voraks did not make a move to approach from the safe distance, instead one of his Spawn Marines moved forward and retrieved the capsule, and swiftly carried it to the waiting palm of its master.

"Thank you," Voraks said without any trace of gratitude in his voice. Then he dropped the capsule to the deck of the bridge, and proceeded to pull out his plasma pistol sidearm. He aimed the weapon down, and pulled the trigger. There was a bright flash of a miniature sun as plasma was released, searing through the deck plating and obliterating the capsule, and any chance of Savardin's revival with it.

"I doubt lord Kalron will be pleased with the loss of one of his most valued allies," Rukiel said with a cold voice.

"He will associate with me from now on," Voraks said with a rich smile audible in his voice. "I am the lord of the Onyx Sons warband now."

"I doubt Kalron, or the rest of your warband, will see eye to eye with you when they hear what you did to Savardin's flesh," Rukiel said.

"Polryphon is dead," Voraks said. "The rest of the warband will fall in line behind me. And Kalron will never know what happened to Savardin, other than that he fell in valiant battle against the cursed Thirteenth. You will not be there to tell him otherwise." Rukiel had expected this. He was too great of a risk and a threat to Voraks' ambitions. "Kill him," Voraks let out an order.

The ten Spawn Marines rushed forward. Some of the fired their bolters, the fools. They died first, unable to counter Rukiel's attack since they had chosen to close in with bolters rather than melee weapons that such a close proximity would have required. Rukiel dodged some of the bolts with unnatural dexterity enhanced by the touch of the Warp, and he simply rushed through the rest, trusting his armor to protect him. The bolter wielding pair at the head of the formation died a heart beat after, their heads leaving their bodies in single slash from Rukiel's spear.

The rest piled in on Rukiel, and he slew a third Spawn by thrusting the tip of his spear through a crimson eye rest started slashing at him with their weapons, and he was put on the defense. His spear came up, the shaft blocking three different chainswords at once. He maneuvered so that the bodies of the locked Spawns hindered the reach of others, and then he turned his head towards the one enemy flaking from his side with a rised weapon. He looked into the eye lenses, and focused his meager psychic might into a focused strike against the incoming Spawn's weak mind.

" _Die!_ " Rukiel snarled.

The Spawn that had been just a moment away from striking at Rukiel collapsed onto the ground as its bloodline turned against its mind, holding its head and crying out in a hideous roar. It continued to crawl on the deck, and Rukiel instantly dismissed it as not a threat. He Killed two more of the Spawns by shoulder bashing against one, and then proceeding to run his spear through the torsos of two others in one smooth move. He spun around and smashed his armored boot against the reeling Spawnkin before finishing it with a spear through the helmet.

He harnessed some dark power of the Warp again as he brought his spar around in a sweeping motion, using its shaft as a blunt impact weapon. It hit two of the Spawn marines harder than it should have by the laws of physics, and the two of them were sent flying with their armor, flesh and skulls breaking from the impact. They flew towards Voraks who stepped aside with casual ease.

The last Spawn Marine still assaulting Rukiel hurled its chainswords forward in a desperate push. Rukiel effortlessly parried it aside and struck the cloned marine down, before cutting it open with sweep of his spear's tip. The crawling Spawn Marine was still down from the psychic attack, clawing at its helm at Rukiel's feet. Rukiel put it down with a contempting spear thrust, before turning to face Voraks on the other end of the command dias.

Voraks was calmly standing his ground, his plasma pistol firmly pointing at Rukiel, a power sword in the other hand. Rukiel estimated the situation, and unless Voraks had an aim of an Ork, Rukiel would not be dodging the quick demise by a plasma discharge unless by some dark miracle of the Warp, and those boons were far from reliable. He would try kill Voraks of course. There was nothing to lose anyway, and not other possible way out. If he engaged his jump pack and rushed forward in a way that would manage to make him miss most of the lethal plasma, then maybe… maybe…

"I would have liked to have someone like you in my warband, but you are too dangerous." And you would never bow to me, would you?" Voraks asked.

"No, i would not," Rukiel spat. Maybe he would have tried to bargain for his life, tried to offer his service and convince Voraks of his usefulness, but he knew that would be pointless, so he did not bother to squirm. Voraks would kill him anyway. He gripped his spear tighterin readiness for one final, desperate attack.

There was bark of a bolter, and the plasma pistol in Vorak's hand was half shattered from the impact of a bolt shell. The pistol weapon fell, and Rukiel saw his chance. He rushed forward and charge Voraks.

Voraks' sword came up to block in a precise motion, the loss of his plasma pistol not offsetting him enough to leave an opening for a kill to exploit. He pressed back almost immediately, and Rukiel could feel the disruption fielded blade skimm his arm, cutting armor and flesh but not doing any real damage. Rukie roared and launched a series of deadly thrusts, all blocked by Voraks.

The two of them spun around for 23 second. Both of them scored minor glancing blows and meaningless flesh wounds. Rukiel's left arm was dripping his own blood, coating his palms and his spear's shaft. Suddenly he smiled, his helmetless face bare to see for Vorax. "I killed you," he snarled. He wished he could have seen Voraks' face, but the ornate helmet was covering the Pureblood's face. And you could not blink blood away from helmet's retinal lenses.

Rukiel flicked his wrist, sending a spray of his own blood into the face of Vorax. The well aimed blood hit the eye lenses and covered them, disparaging Voraks' vision. He stumbled. That was all Rukiel needed.

The _Shadower_ pierced Voraks' throat, and a twist from Rukiel severed the spine. Voraks was dead before he hit the ground.

Rukiel breathed heavily as he stood over the body for long moment. Then he lifted his gaze to see the back of the bridge, to finally find out who had saved him, who had shot the plasma pistol of Voraks. What he saw surprised him.

Of the two Spawn Marines he kept as decoration by the bridge door, one was standing still as a statue as always. And the other was holding a boltgun that was aimed at the command dias. The Spawn Marine, one more cognitively challenged than a servitor, one that Rukiel had not even provided with a loaded weapon, was standing over one of Voraks's bodyguards, from which it had apparently scavenged a loaded boltgun, and saved Rukiel.

Rukiel stood there for a long while simply staring at the Spawn Marine. Then the Spawn dropped the boltgun, picked up its own empty autogun from the floor, and proceeded to march back to the door where it tooks its place by the other guard, once more still as a statue.

Rukiel pushed the thing from his mind and immediately took his command throne. "Shields up, full combat readiness!" he barked, and the crew slowly emerged from their covers to fulfill his will.

"Start hailing our forces on board the spacefort, connect me immediately if you manage to establish a link with Kerverax. Send a crypted message in advance, telling all our forces on board the starfort to retreat any way they can and return to _Ars Moriendi._ Relay similar message to all our forces planetside. I need all the warrior I can get."

Rukiel felt his spirit lift with new opportunities. "How many Spawn Marines do we have onboard?"

"We have sixty Spawn Marines left to guard the ship, making their way towards the bridge as you commanded, my lord," came a reply soon after.

"Redirect them to boarding pods and tell tell to prepare for ship to ship assault," Rukiel ordered.

"As you will, my lord."

"My lord, I have established a connection with someone who claims to be in near vicinity of lord Kerverax on board the spacefort. Still no direct connection with our own squad."

"Put me through," Rukiel said, and soon he heard voice through Vox link. He smiled. "Khulain Khan, I find myself in a sudden need of warriors who are in rapid availability, and have a once in a lifetime proposition for you."

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed that. Only one chapter left to deal with the aftermath.**


	11. Chapter 11

**No Man's Storm 11**

 **Chapter 11**

* * *

 _ **"The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable."**_

 **-James A. Garfield**

* * *

Rukiel entered the chamber in the upper core of the starfort. It was a was vast and much decorated place, fitting personal quarters of the lord who had ones ruled over Hell's Iris. It continued the serve that purpose, even though the lord had changed.

Kalron was standing in a part of the chamber near the center, by a massive, transhuman size desk that had been wrought from wood with great art and skill. Rukiel could see the fine carvings and iconography of Ultramar, causing him to suspect the desk was originally from the five hundreds words inside the Ruinstorm, a relic from the days of the Great Crusade based on the lack of marks of the primordial annihilator.

On top of the desk were a pile of data slates, scrolls and writing implements as well as a severed head still lodged inside a helmet almost completely covered with gold, and with a haloed Ultima in the elaborate crest. The head of the starfort's last master was leaking blood onto the table where it had been placed until it could be found a more permanent place in Kalron's trophy room that was probably being transported from the Crimson Lords' flagship on board the fort.

"You are going to keep this wooden furniture of Ultramar?" Rukiel asked as he stopped to stand on the other side of the table, keeping a respectful distance. Many others symbols and trophies of Ultramarines had been removed from the chamber, but the table had been left untouched.

"It is a perfectly good desk," Kalron simply replied, his eyes lingering on a dataslate on the said wooden surface. The two of them stood in silence for a brief moment before Kalron spoke again. "I heard that, following his unfortunate demise, you took over Savardin's _Dark Harbinger_ , as well as his warband."

"It is a ship of the XIXth Legion. I would have hated to see it in unworthy hands," Rukiel said, just a hint of a smile on his white face. "The Onyx Sons were leaderless, so I rallied them behind me."

Following the death of Voraks, Rukiel had quickly recalled what forces he could from the starfort and attacked the _Dark Harbinger_ before the rest of the Onyx Sons Purebloods had learned of Voraks fate. Khulain Khan had been instrumental in the boarding action, offering the might of the Unchained warband for Rukiel's cause. Voraks had been the only Pureblood left on the Battle Barge, so after his death there had been only Spawn Marines left. Rukiel had wiped them out with Khulain's help, securing the ship for him. After the war of Hell's Iris had been won, the remaining Onyx Sons had been given a choice: join Rukiel's Obsidian Talons in control of their ship, or find a new vessel. It was not a surprise all of them had chosen to join him.

Savardin was dead, as well as both his lieutenants, Polryphon and Voraks. There had been no true challenger for Rukiel left, so the transition had been quite smooth. Couple of the Purebloods had been even glad with the change, some others just did not care who lead the warband. Those who were not entirely in favor of Rukiel had chosen to remain silent and accept the his leadership. Rukiel had entered the Maelstrom with hopes of growing his power, and he had received more than he could have dreamed of.

 _Ars Moriendi_ had been gifted to Khulain Khan after the the merging of the Raven Guard warbands. Rukiel had no use for the damaged Strike Cruiser, he now had a Battle Barge after all. Khulain had been quite grateful, truly pleased he had chosen to listen to Rukiel's proposition. It had been a win-win situation for the both of them.

"Savardin was a valued ally for me for many years," Karlons said, finally raising his unblinking eyes to look at Rukiel. His aura was bright with the Wap's favour following his massive victory and conquest. He had just crowned himself as one of the major powers of a gigantic warpstorm, there was no doubting his rise of standing in the hierarchies of Chaos. "The value of him and the XIXth Legion assets has won me many victories. If you would like to continue in his footsteps and take his place, I would appreciate it."

Rukiel smiled. "The Obsidian Talons would eagerly continue what the Onyx Sons started. You have an ally in me, lord Kalron, and I hope I can be as useful as Savardin was."

This was a huge victory. Rukiel had reforged his warband, and he had acquired the connections with lord who was contesting for the dominance of the Maelstrom. Rukiel was sure these connections would come very useful in the coming years of the Long War. He was not quite sure if it was within his interest to answer if Kalron called for him in the future, but the benefits were too good to close any doors at this point. Maybe he would take all he could from this alliance and break his ties when it suited him. Maybe The Obsidian Talons and Crimson Lords would remain unbreakable allies for all eternity. Rukiel would see what future best served him, just as he was sure Kalron did.

"That is good to hear. I look forward to making war with you again. I see a lot of potential in you, Varkhian. Do not disappoint me." Kalron looked down again, picking up dataslate. "I would offer you a world in my new realm in this storm, but I assume you are like Savardin and do not want to settle down a base of operation outside the Eye of Terror."

Rukiel nodded. "There is only one world that I would have my Spire rise upon," he said.

Kalron nodded in return handed over a dataslate. "That's what I thought. I will give you your share of the spoils of war anyway. You can see the conquered systems I have designated for you here. I added some extra because of your recent elevation. These systems are for you to do as you please until my forces get around to securing them. Take all you want, and feel free to wipe out any Ultramarine straglers you come across."

Rukiel took the dataslate, holding it with care, for it was his share of the benefits of victory. He would claim a valuable bounty of resources from the worlds give to him for free raiding by Kalron. He had taken his share of the armories of the Ultramarines when the fortress city of Pelimar had been at long last taken over, but he was sure he could find a lot more from the territories of taken from the Ultramarines.

"I thank you for your generosity," Rukiel said, meaning it truly this time, unlike the day he had firts met Kalron. The master of the Crimson Lords truly was something special. As Rukiel watched at the hulking Terminator, he saw a warlord, champion and a warrior. The realms of ruin were filled with them. But he also saw a leader, a true leader of men of a higher class, something that was not too often found among the Nine Legions.

Rukiel started making his way out, and as he reached the door, he was called upon by Kalron for one last time.

"I will see you on the walls of the Throne World."

* * *

The world had been called Sitharius by the Ultramarine warband that had used it as a source of flesh and labor. The larger than average human and mutant populations across the world had made the planet a good source of slaves and sacrifices, but since the destruction of the warband in the battle of the Hell's iris, the world had unknown to its inhabitants been left without a master. The Crimson Lord would sooner or later came to the world and establish it as a part of Kalron's growing sphere of influence in one way or another, but by then there would be no population to rule and exploit. Rukiel had use for them.

The structure Rukiel's warband elite was standing upon was an grand altar made of iron and black stone, fashioned by the Ultramarines. It was located in the corner of a vast desert, near the largest city the planet had. Rukiel had come to understand this was where the Ultramarines landed when they came to demand tribute and resources from the mortal populations. A delegation of human had indeed approached the altar after Rukiel's thunderhawks had made their landing. The Spawn Marines had gunned them down without greater considerations.

There was a very important... _procedure,_ Rukiel had come to this world for. After all, he now had a skilled sorcerer in his warband, and an Apothecary on the hand for a while longer. There was something very important he needed both their services for. That was the lightening of the Carrion Chain.

There were vast pods occupying the altar's center in a circle, half open platforms housing transhuman bodies. Pureblood bodies.

The most honored Apothecary Krios had taken samples from the warband's Carrion Chain, and from the flesh of fallen sons of the Raven Lord he had fashioned new bodies with his mastery of flesh and the dark arts of the Sea of Souls. All the Legion brothers who had fallen in the Long War but had their remains secured, both from Obsidian Talons and Onyx Sons, were now laid before Rukiel, ummobile, empty of soul. Savardin should have been among them. Shame.

The revival process did not work if the flesh was harvested before the death of the Pureblood. Otherwise the Legion would have kept a stock of flesh of all the true sons, and the Purebloods would not be a slowly diminishing breed. There was some dark mystery of the Warp that kept things from being too easy and convenient. There was no easy roads in the realm beyond reality.

Rukiel's new Sorcerer, Mechromance, was standing in the center of the altar, almost as immobile as the silent bodies arrayed around him. He did not make grand gestures, did not recite a ritualistic chant, did not call out to the denizens of the Warp. He simply stood ground, waiting. A man without the sixth sense might have mistaken him for idle.

Around the altar were the other Purebloods of the reforged Obsidian Talons, both the old ones and the new ones. Kerverax and Lharkus were standing by Rukiel's side, both of their forms sporting new spoils of the recent war. Kerverax had a holstered power sword added his belt, the very same that had once been carried by Voraks, who's body was coincidentally missing from the circle of resurrection.

There was a lot of new faces, new additions to the warband. Rukiel realized how small it had felt when it had been only himself, Kerverax and Lharkus. And Skaron of course, he been a useful one. Another shame. Onyx sons had consisted of 12 Purebloods. Two of them were dead for goot, Savardin and Polryphon were beyond Rukiel's reach. Voraks had forfeited his second chance, at least until, or if, Rukiel ever felt merciful and had use for him in the future. But the other 8, Mechromance included, were a welcome addition to Rukiel's army.

Kilvester was standing surrounded by a ten man squad of hand picked Spawn Marines, a bit similar to what was left of of Rukiel's Mortet Guard. Kilvester was apparently not much of a leader, but he preferred going into battle surrounded by a squad he had forged himself. That or he was just really paranoid and wanted to be surrounded by meat shields all the time. Rukiel and him had a slightly sore understanding for now, but he was working on it.

Harx was standing closest to the circle of empty Pureblood formes, stoically looking upon the black faces. He had both of his hands on a pommel of a long and black, two handed deamon chainsword. He had apparently been the champion of the Onyx Sons warband, the finest fighter they had. Rukiel always valued a man who knew his way with a blade, and Harx had been very understanding regarding the change in leadership.

Then there were Othian and Renator, never too many paces apart. The two were apparently inseparable, like true born twins despite no connection of blood but that of the Ravenlord. Two sneaky, slick murderers. They had taken Rukiel's new leadership most readily, they did not care who they killed for, and they had apparently hated Voraks, which had instantly warmed them for Rukiel.

Kison was a tall Pureblood armed with a more weapons than Rukiel had ever seen a single legionnaire carry. He had combat knifes and small blades hanging from his belt like teeth in mouth, he had a bolter and a meltagun strapped to his back, his power maul was hanging from his hip, and in his hand he carried a bulky heavy bolter with a fixed bayonet chainblade. Even the armored knuckles of the warrior had small spikes in them. He had expressed most vocal signs of discord when Rukiel had taken over the leadership. He was not stupid, so he had of course fallen in line once it was clear there was not too much protest from the rest of the warband, but Rukiel knew to keep an eye on Kison.

Devotian was observing the resurrection ritual with strange look on his face. He had apparently died once before, and been brought back in the very same way that was now being enacted before him. His white face showed no emotions for Rukiel to interpret. Devotian was half the time distant and brooding, and Rukiel had not quite worked him out yet. But Devotian was nothing compared to poor Frall.

Devotian ha died once and had been brought back. That was nothing on Frall, who had died five times, and been brought back just as many. He was even more distant warrior, a silent man who one did not see around until it was time to make war. Rukiel was not sure if Frall cared at all about the changes to the Warband's hierarchy. He was unlucky bastard that had been thrown into true hell and back too many times. Rukiel did not want to be in the blast radius when Frall died again. It was said that while the revival ritual was not a sure procedure by any measure, Frall would always manage to come back without trouble. He always did return after all, the only thing he was eager to do.

Rukiel's attention was taken by Mechromance turning to face in in the center of the circle. "It is time, give the order." Rukiel glanced at Apothecary Krios, who nodded. He proceeded to open his vox, contacting Spawn Prime Kiarona on board the _Dark harbinger_ in the orbit. "Kiarona, we are ready. Transmit the order to begin."

"Yes my lord..."

Rukiel could not see it, but he knew what was beginning all over the planet. Spawn Marines transported to all populations centers of any real scale were starting to slaughter the mortals. A planetside massacre was taking place, all to fuel the important ritual of resurrection. Rukiel had suggested them merely leveling the cities from orbit, but both Krios and Mechromance had said the more intimate murder by hand would yield better results. The command to begin had been give, and now it was time to wait.

It was a long wait. The Purebloods stood on the altar for eight days, all the while more mortals life was offered to the warp all over the world, thrown into the devouring maw of the Empyrean for a handful of soul to escape in return. For eight days the only thing Rukiel did was observe the empty shells and listen to reports of Spawns finishing old and beginning new massacres somewhere else. And after eight days waiting and butchering, he received results.

A scream pierced the air. For a briefest of instants, there was something unnatural about it, like a very inhuman tone that echoed alongside the very human cry. One of the white bodies jumped out from its pod, while the rest of them crumbled to black ash. No return to life for them this time around. The Empyrean was always reluctant to let go of those it had already claimed fully. The ritual rarely yield more than a handful of success at most, and this time it seemed there was only one. Maybe the next time around, if the Warp allowed.

Rukiel walked to the white naked warrior who was sitting on his pod and looking around madly, no voice emerging from his mouth after the initial scream. Rukiel placed a black gauntlet on the shoulder of his brother. "Welcome back, Torash."

* * *

Exiting a grand warpstorm was an art the nine Legion had spent ten millennia in real years and eternity in the unreality trying to master. The only true fact of the matter was that there was no one single, reliable way of doing so. There was as many ways out of the storms as there were ship trying. Some warbands made deals with powerful and influential denizens of the Immaterium or mystical guides who should not be bothered with irrelevancies, while some warbands simply passed through with the help of a divine patron they had pledged themselves to. Others searched for the secret passage ways, something left from the age of the Eldar empire, or the random stable paths that appeared and disappeared before they could be of any longstanding use. Some warbands simply hurled themselves to the mercy of the tides, giving themselves to be guided by the Empyrean currents, not caring where they ended up as long as the tides carried them to war.

The _Dark Harbinger_ launched itself against the rolling tides of the Maelstrom's edge, pushing out to break free of the hellish realm into the rational reality of the wider galaxy. The Storm was fierce, but _Dark Harbinger_ was breaking through, sooner or later. The grand warp currents did not possess the focus of attention to hinder such a meaningless speck of beings on the grand scheme of fate forever, and the ships of the XIXth Legion always received help from beyond the reality.

Rukiel was sitting on his new throne in his new chambers in his new personal spinal spire, staring out through the unshielded viewports at the storms rage. He did not have need to shield his eyes from the miasma of warp crushing against the ship, he even found the sight beautiful in a very ugly way, if that made sense. He rested his hands on the throne's arms, the throne that had once belonged to Savardin.

"Would you have attempted to revive him?" Kerverax asked as the sole other occupant of the room, disregarding mindless servitors. Rukiel turned his eyes from the storm to look at him.

"Savardin. Would you still have revived him, had you been given the chance. Even if it cost you the mastery of this ship and the warband?"

Rukiel looked at Kerverax for along while, and then turned away, not answering the question. "Tell the shipmaster to head for the homeworld. It seems there is another spire there we must claim from going waste," Rukiel answered instead after a while.

Kerverax nodded with a smile, turned on his heels and marched out of the chamber without further words, leaving Rukiel alone.

Rukiel looked at the storm again for a while. As he looked at it now, the conquest of all of the Maelstrom had been an impossible task. He was sure he had always known it, but he had indulged the delusion and the thrill it brought to the conquest. There was no leader in the Nine Legions who could truly raise to claim such a vast hellish realm as their own. The grand warpstorms, the Eye, the Ruinstorm, and the Maelstrom brooked no other mastery that the chaotic designs of the Warp. Malestrom would never fully be Kalron's, no matter how much he tried to conquer it. It was and would always be a no man's storm.

Rukiel looked to his side, looked at tightly secured storage apparatuses under constant care of servitors. A treasure he very much liked have under his eyes. In the stasis lock behind a thick protection of a transparent window plex, were to sets of geneseed organs, finally taken and fully cultivated from their original progenoid glands. There were some organs missing, some organs that had long since died in the bloodline of the Ravenlord, but all the necessary ones were there. The organs had been grown out of multiple of progenoid glands, the warp touched XIXth Bloodline needing to mix together many such organs to produce a single fully working set of organs required. Of all the proganoids glands of the XIXth both Rukiel and Savarding had managed to gather, of all the remains of fallen brothers, only two full sets of organs had been able to be pieced together by Apothecary Krios. Only two. Rukiel looked at the left side of the pod, beholding a collection of organs that had in their original form been claimed form bodies of a dozen Purebloods. He would put much care and effort to finding perfect implantation hosts for them.

Rukiel turned his gaze away, absently picking up a dataslate that was sitting on his throne's arm, another of his treasures, the very same that had sat beside him when he still commanded the light cruiser _Raptor's Shroud_. The same scrapped text still decorated the back of the slate, insulting the memory of Guilliman. He turned the device on and absently scrolled through the content like he had done so many times before.

He had come across the dataslate by pure coincidence when he had for the first time emerged from exile of the Eye to raid the Corpse emperor's realm. It had been such a curious find, and he kept it as a memorial of his first battles in the Long War as well as simply because of the amusement he got from the incredibly rare contents.

The dataslate contained a notes and texts of a long dead Remembrancer of the Great Crusade era. The Remembrancer, Petronella Vivar, had kept logs of the events he witnessed during the heresy, but most interesting file was a document where she was preparing a historical report to the High Lords of Terra themselves, including a name she had come up with for the great civil war based on some comments and exchanges by the then late Warmaster. _"Roboute... Wise Roboute... Roboute with his scratching quills and his plans and his hope! Too understanding... Too strong... Too damn perfect... I wish I had seen it before it was too late!"_

The war's name that would be recorded in history books reeked of the foul lie of the Empror's divinity and the faith sprouting from it. Rukiel scowled as he always did when reading it from the dataslate.

" _The Roboutian Heresy."_

* * *

The earth was gray, ash like sand, the landscape was desolate, and the sky was black and shrouded by clouds that left only the barest semblance of sunlight through. The stars could not be seen from the surface at all. It was quiet, but never truly silent. There was always something to hear, if not from one's surroundings than in the back of one's mind. In the horizon rose an impossibly high spire. The Spire of the Obsidian Talons. _His_ spire.

The surface of the nameless world was not a place of any sort of positive emotion, not even a flicker of hope, peace, mercy, pity or kindness would linger in the minds of those who were doomed to wander this land not till they died, which was not a release, but until they finally dissolved into to oblivion.

There was life here, of a sorts, the world was not dead. It needed occupants, beings to walk upon it and suffer. Suffer until they could suffer not more. There were beings all around him. He could feel them without looking for them. His sixth sense was amplified here at his Legion's home. He could feel the Warp flow through him, and along him, saturating his blood, flowing through his hearts, enhancing his brain, filling his cells.

The creatures reacted to him. They recognized him as one of the Lords of this world. The Spawnkin gathered in his wake, keeping a fearful and respectful distance, following him in ever growing packs by some natural instinct, unnatural understanding or mental purpose. They recognized his power. They hoped he would take them away so they would not have to suffer and die there. He paid them no mind.

Then there were monsters. There was always monsters, and not better name could be given to them, for trying to categorize them would have been an act of madness. They fled in his path, sensing his aura and knowing to escape his might. He never saw them, they avoided his sight as best they could, but he could feel them. _Here there be monsters._

And finally there were the Lemures, the ultimate sufferers, the victim wraiths, the immortal damned, the eternally devoured. They were meaningless things, existing only because someone needed to suffer from the sins committed by the XIXth legion, and even the Spawnkin were not numerous enough for that cause. Some of them escaped from him, some of them did not even seem to notice him, too broken to imitate any semblance of fight or flight instinct. He let them be, they were nothing to him.

He lifted his face and looked up at the black, starless sky. When he removed some of his psychic protections from his mind, he was able see more clearly with his mind's eye, and so he did just that, carefully loosening the lenses he had wrapped around his own senses. The sight was not pleasant, which was why he rarely allowed himself to see clearly. He could see the star maelstroms. All of them. No matter how far they were, no matter how large they were, he could see them all, leaking into reality, eroding it, devouring it. He could see suffering, madness and annihilation leaking into reality all across the galaxy. He looked at them and he saw oblivion.

He lifted his protections again, sheltering his sight from the cruel reality, taking refuge in the small refuge of out of sight, out of mind. He pushed it out of his mind, making himself not to care about it. He needed this curtaining of the truth. He needed to cling to war, to ambition, to greed, to hate, to all these very human things that he forced himself to care about, so that his purpose, spirit, identity and sanity would not be crushed by the truth. He needed to something to make him not care about the annihilation.

And there were such things. War. Battle. Glory. Elevation. Sensation. Vengeance. They were his purpose, the things that made him alive. There was a wasting carcass on the Golden Throne, waiting for a carrion bird.

He walked the land for a long, long time, and eventually he happened upon something that catched his interest. It was a Lemure he sensed somewhere far ahead of him, and he changed his course on a whim, for his senses managed to reap some semblance of recognition from the thing. He walked long before he actually saw the thing, and he stopped in front of it in the middle of the wasteland.

It was a small, frail, pathetic thing, humanoid in shape and without any characteristics that would have differentiated it from the rest of its wraithly kin. It was sitting on the ground lifelessly, and only motion it showed was it turning his head up to look at Rukiel. It did not possess a face that was able to produce expression, and so it just stared up, blankly, hopelessly, lifelessly.

Rukiel recognized the spirit, even if it probably did not recognize him in return. His lips twisted into a faint smile. "Loyal to the death, Veteran Sergeant…" Rukiel whispered. Then he continued walking forward, leaving the miserable thing behind. He continued walking ever onward, and disappeared into the dark wasteland.

* * *

 **And here it is. This is the end, Rukiel is the conqueror. He has a brand new ship and a warband is stronger than ever. The Crusade Host won, Ultramarines died, happy ending.**

 **No Ultramarine Tetrarchs though. Darkerpaths owes me five bucks.**

 **I hope you liked this story, I had a lot of fun writing it.** **Now I can at long last get back to writing my 40kxRWBY story again. One day in the distant future I will complete the Raven Guard trilogy. If anyone has suggestions I am all ears. The name is decided already though.**

 **See you guys again.**


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